;-NRLF 


B    M    1D3    IbS 


DHRAD  AIKI 


THE    HOUSE    OF    DUST 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DUST 

A  Symphony 


BY 

CONRAD    AIKEN 


BOSTON 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 
1920 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 


The   Four    Seas    Press 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


To  Jessie 


47083V 


NOTE 

.  .  .  Parts  of  this  poem  have  been  printed  in  The 
North  American  Review,  Others,  Poetry,  Youth, 
Coterie,  The  Yale  Review.  ...  I  am  indebted  to 
Lafcadio  Hearn  for  the  episode  called  "The  Screen 
Maiden"  in  Part  III 


CONTENTS 
PART  I. 

Page 

I II 

II 13 

III 14 

iv 16 

v 18 

vi 20 

vn 27 

VIII 30 

PART  II. 

i 32 

n.  THE  FULFILLED  DREAM 33 

in.  INTERLUDE 37 

iv.  NIGHTMARE 38 

v.  RETROSPECT 40 

vi.  ADELE  AND  DAVIS 42 

vii.  Two  LOVERS:  OVERTONES 45 

vin.  THE  Box  WITH  SILVER  HANDLES  ...  49 

ix.  INTERLUDE 52 

x.  SUDDEN  DEATH 54 

XL  58 


CONTENTS 

Page 

PART  III. 

i 61 

ii.     THE  SCREEN  MAIDEN 62 

in.     HAUNTED  CHAMBERS 69 

iv.     ILLICIT 70 

v.     MELODY  IN  A  RESTAURANT 74 

vi.     PORTRAIT  OF  ONE  DEAD 76 

vn.     PORCELAIN 79 

vin.     COFFINS:    INTERLUDE 83 

ix.     CABARET 86 

x.     LETTER 89 

XL     CONVERSATION  :  UNDERTONES   ....  96 

xn.     WITCHES'   SABBATH 99 

xm II3 

PART  IV. 

i.     CLAIRVOYANT 114 

n.     DEATH:  AND  A  DERISIVE  CHORUS  .      .      .  116 

in.     PALIMPSEST:  A  DECEITFUL  PORTRAIT.      .  119 

iv.     COUNTERPOINT:  Two  ROOMS   .      .      .      .  132 

v.     THE  BITTER  LOVE-SONG 135 

vi.     CINEMA 138 

vn 


THE    HOUSE    OF    DUST 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DUST 

PART  I. 

i. 

The  sun  goes  down  in  a  cold  pale  flare  of  light. 
The  trees  grow  dark :  the  shadows  lean  to  the  east : 
And  lights  wink  out  through  the  windows,  one  by  one. 
A  clamor  of  frosty  sirens  mourns  at  the  night. 
Pale  slate-grey  clouds  whirl  up  from  the  sunken  sun. 

And  the  wandering  one,  the  inquisitive  dreamer  of 
;        dreams, 

The  eternal  asker  of  answers,  stands  in  the  street, 
And  lifts  his  palms  for  the  first  cold  ghost  of  rain. 
The  purple  lights  leap  down  the  hill  before  him. 
The  gorgeous  night  has  begun  again. 

'I  will  ask  them  all,  I  will  ask  them  all  their  dreams, 
I  will  hold  my  light  above  them  and  seek  their  faces. 
I  will  hear  them  whisper,  invisible  in  their  veins  .   .   .  ' 
The  eternal  asker  of  answers  becomes  as  the  darkness, 
Or  as  a  wind  blown  over  a  myriad  forest, 
Or  as  the  numberless  voices  of  long-drawn  rains. 


The  House  of  Dust 

We  hear  him  and  take  him  among  us,  like  a  wind  of 

music, 

Like  the  ghost  of  a  music  we  have  somewhere  heard; 
We  crowd  through  the  streets  in  a  dazzle  of  pallid 

lamplight, 

We  pour  in  a  sinister  wave,  ascend  a  stair, 
With  laughter  and  cry,   and  word  upon  murmured 

word; 
We  flow,  we  descend,  we  turn  .    .    .  and  the  eternal 

dreamer 
Moves  among  us  like  light,  like  evening  air  ... 

Good-night!     Good-night!     Good-night!     We  go  our 

ways, 

The  rain  runs  over  the  pavement  before  our  feet, 
The  cold  rain  falls,  the  rain  sings. 
We  walk,  we  run,  we  ride.     We  turn  our  faces 
To  what  the  eternal  evening  brings. 

Our  hands  are  hot  and  raw  with  the  stones  we  have 

laid, 

We  have  built  a  tower  of  stone  high  into  the  sky, 
We  have  built  a  city  of  towers. 

[12] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Our  hands  are  light,  they  are  singing  with  emptiness. 
Our  souls  are  light;  they  have  shaken  a  burden  of 

hours  .   .   . 

What  did  we  build  it  for?     Was  it  all  a  dream?  .   .   . 
Ghostly  above  us  in  lamplight  the  towers  gleam  .    .    . 
And  after  a  while  they  will  fall  to  dust  and  rain  ; 
Or  else  we  will  tear  them  down  with  impatient  hands ; 
And  hew  rock  out  of  the  earth,  and  build  them  again. 


n. 

One,  from  his  high  bright  window  in  a  tower, 
Leans  out,  as  evening  falls, 
And  sees  the  advancing  curtain  of  the  shower 
Splashing  its  silver  on  roofs  and  walls: 
Sees  how,  swift  as  a  shadow,  it  crosses  the  city, 
And  murmurs  beyond  far  walls  to  the  sea, 
Leaving  a  glimmer  of  water  in  the  dark  canyons, 
And  silver  falling  from  eave  and  tree. 


One,  from  his  high  bright  window,  looking  down, 
Peers  like  a  dreamer  over  the  rain-bright  town, 

[13] 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  thinks  its  towers  are  like  a  dream. 

The  western  windows  flame  in  the  sun's  last  flare, 

Pale  roofs  begin  to  gleam. 

Looking  down  from  a  window  high  in  a  wall 
He  sees  us  all ; 

Lifting  our  pallid  faces  towards  the  rain, 
Searching  the  sky,  and  going  our  ways  again, 
Standing  in  doorways,  waiting  under  the  trees  .   .   . 
There,  in  the  high  bright  window  he  dreams,  and  sees 
What  we  are  blind  to, — we  who  mass  and  crowd 
From  wall  to  wall  in  the  darkening  of  a  cloud. 

The  gulls  drift  slowly  above  the  city  of  towers, 

Over  the  roofs  to  the  darkening  sea  they  fly; 

Night  falls  swiftly  on  an  evening  of  rain. 

The  yellow  lamps  wink  one  by  one  again. 

The  towers  reach  higher  and  blacker  against  the  sky. 


One,  where  the  pale  sea  foamed  at  the  yellow  sand, 
With  wave  upon  slowly  shattering  wave, 

[14] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Turned  to  the  city  of  towers  as  evening  fell ; 
And  slowly  walked  by  the  darkening  road  toward  it ; 
And  saw  how  the  towers  darkened  against  the  sky ; 
And  across  the  distance  heard  the  toll  of  a  bell. 

Along  the  darkening  road  he  hurried  alone, 

With  his  eyes  cast  down, 

And  thought  how  the  streets  were  hoarse  with  a  tide  of 

people, 

With  clamor  of  voices,  and  numberless  faces  .    .   . 
And  it  seemed  to  him,  of  a  sudden,  that  he  would 

drown 

Here  in  the  quiet  of  evening  air, 
These  empty  and  voiceless  places  .   .  . 
And  he  hurried  towards  the  city,  to  enter  there. 

Along  the  darkening  road,  between  tall  trees 
That  made  a  sinister  whisper,  loudly  he  walked. 
Behind  him,  sea-gulls  dipped  over  long  grey  seas. 
Before  him,  numberless  lovers  smiled  and  talked. 
And  death  was  observed  with  sudden  cries, 
And  birth  with  laughter  and  pain. 
And  the  trees  grew  taller  and  blacker  against  the  skies 
And  night  came  down  again. 

[is] 


The  House  of  Dust 

IV. 

Up  high  black  walls,  up  sombre  terraces, 
Clinging  like  luminous  birds  to  the  sides  of  cliffs, 
The  yellow  lights  went  climbing  towards  the  sky. 
From  high  black  walls,  gleaming  vaguely  with  rain, 
Each  yellow  light  looked  down  like  a  golden  eye. 

They  trembled  from  coign  to  coign,  and  tower  to  tower, 
Along  high  terraces  quicker  than  dream  they  flew. 
And  some  of  them  steadily  glowed,  and  some  soon 

vanished, 
And  some  strange  shadows  threw. 

And  behind  them  all  the  ghosts  of  thoughts  went  mov 
ing, 

Restlessly  moving  in  each  lamplit  room, 
From  chair  to  mirror,  from  mirror  to  fire; 
From  some,  the  light  was  scarcely  more  than  a  gloom : 
From  some,  a  dazzling  desire. 

And  there  was  one,  beneath  black  eaves,  who  thought, 
Combing  with  lifted  arms  her  golden  hair, 

[16] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Of  the  lover  who  hurried  towards  her  through  the 

night ; 

And  there  was  one  who  dreamed  of  a  sudden  death 
As  she  blew  out  her  light. 

And  there  was  one  who  turned  from  clamoring  streets, 
And  walked  in  lamplit  gardens  among  black  trees, 
And  looked  at  the  windy  sky, 
And  thought  with  terror  how  stones  and  roots  would 

freeze 
And  birds  in  the  dead  boughs  cry . . . 

And  she  hurried  back,  as  snow  fell,  mixed  with  rain, 
To  mingle  among  the  crowds  again, 
To  jostle  beneath  blue  lamps  along  the  street; 
And  lost  herself  in  the  warm  bright  coiling  dream, 
With  a  sound  of  murmuring  voices  and  shuffling  feet. 

And  one,  from  his  high  bright  window  looking  down 
On  luminous  chasms  that  cleft  the  basalt  town, 
Hearing  a  sea-like  murmur  rise, 
Desired  to  leave  his  dream,  descend  from  the  tower, 
And   drown   in   waves   of   shouts   and   laughter   and 
cries 

[17] 


The  House  of  Dust 

v. 

The  snow  floats  down  upon  us,  mingled  with  rain . .  . 

It  eddies  around  pale  lilac  lamps,  and  falls 

Down  golden-windowed  walls. 

We  were  all  born  of  flesh,  in  a  flare  of  pain, 

We  do  not  remember  the  red  roots  whence  we  rose, 
,  But  we  know  that  we  rose  and  walked,  that  after  a 

while 
!  We  shall  lie  down  again. 

The  snow  floats  down  upon  us,  we  turn,  we  turn, 
Through  gorges  filled  with  light  we  sound  and  flow  .  .  . 
One  is  struck  down  and  hurt,  we  crowd  about  him, 
We  bear  him  away,  gaze  after  his  listless  body; 
But  whether  he  lives  or  dies  we  do  not  know. 

One  of  us  sings  in  the  street,  and  we  listen  to  him; 
The  words  ring  over  us  like  vague  bells  of  sorrow. 
He  sings  of  a  house  he  lived  in  long  ago. 
It  is  strange;  this  house  of  dust  was  the  house  I  lived 

in; 

The  house  you  lived  in,  the  house  that  all  of  us  know. 
And  coiling  slowly  about  him,  and  laughing  at  him, 

[18] 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  throwing  him  pennies,  we  bear  away 

A  mournful  echo  of  other  times  and  places, 

And  follow  a  dream  ...  a  dream  that  will  not  stay,  f 


Down  long  broad  nights  of  lamplit  stairs  we  flow; 
Noisy,  in  scattered  waves,  crowding  and  shouting; 
In  broken  slow  cascades. 
The  gardens  extend  before  us   ...  We  spread  out 

swiftly; 
Trees    are    above    us,    and    darkness.      The    canyon 

fades  . 


And  we  recall,  with  a  gleaming  stab  of  sadness, 
Vaguely  and  incoherently,  some  dream 
Of  a  world  we  came  from,  a  world  of  sun-blue  hills  . . . 
A  black  wood  whispers  around  us,  green  eyes  gleam; 
Someone  cries  in  the  forest,  and  someone  kills. 


We  flow  to  the  east,  to  the  white-lined  shivering  sea; 
We  reach  to  the  west,  where  the  whirling  sun  went 
down; 

[19] 


The  House  of  Dust 

We  close  our  eyes  to  music  in  bright  cafes. 

We  diverge  from  clamorous  streets  to  streets  that  are 

silent. 
We  loaf  where  the  wind-spilled  fountain  plays. 

And,  growing  tired,  we  turn  aside  at  last, 
Remember  our  secret  selves,  seek  out  our  towers, 
Lay  weary  hands  on  the  banisters,  and  climb; 
Climbing,  each,  to  his  little  four-square  dream 
Of  love  or  lust  or  beauty  or  death  or  crime. 


VI. 

Over  the  darkened  city,  the  city  of  towers, 

The  city  of  a  thousand  gates, 

Over  the  gleaming  terraced  roofs,  the  huddled  towers, 

Over  a  somnolent  whisper  of  loves  and  hates, 

The  slow  wind  flows,  drearily  streams  and  falls, 

With  a  mournful  sound  down  rain-dark  walls. 

On  one  side  purples  the  lustrous  dusk  of  the  sea, 

And  dreams  in  white  at  the  city's  feet ; 

On  one  side  sleep  the  plains,  with  heaped-up  hills. 

Oaks  and  beeches  whisper^  in  rings  about  it. 

Above  the  trees  are  towers  where  dread  bells  beat. 

[20] 


The  House  of  Dust 

The  fisherman  draws  his  streaming  net  from  the  sea 

And  sails  toward  the  far-off  city,  that  seems 

Like  one  vague  tower. 

The  dark  bow  plunges  to  foam  on  blue-black  waves, 

And  shrill  rain  seethes  like  a  ghostly  music  about  him 

In  a  quiet  shower. 

Rain  with  a  shrill  sings  on  the  lapsing  waves ; 

Rain  thrills  over  the  roofs  again ; 

Like  a  shadow  of  shifting  silver  it  crosses  the  city; 

The  lamps  in  the  streets  are  streamed  with  rain; 

And  sparrows  complain  beneath  deep  eaves, 

And  among  whirled  leaves 

The  sea-gulls,  blowing  from  tower  to  lower  tower, 

From  wall  to  remoter  wall, 

Skim  with  the  driven  rain  to  the  rising  sea-sound 

And  close  grey  wings  and  fall. .  . 

.  .  .  Hearing  great  rain  above  me,  I  now  remember 
A  girl  who  stood  by  the  door  and  shut  her  eyes : 
Her  pale  cheeks  glistened  with  rain,  she  stood  and 

shivered. 

Into  a  forest  of  silver  she  vanished  slowly.  . . 
Voices  about  me  rise  .   .   . 

[21] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Voices  clear  and  silvery,  voices  of  raindrops, — 
'We  struck  with  silver  claws,  we  struck  her  down. 
We  are  the  ghosts  of  the  singing  furies  .    .    .  ' 
A  chorus  of  elfin  voices  blowing  about  me 
Weaves  to  a  babel  of  sound.     Each  cries  a  secret. 
I  run  among  them,  reach  out  vain  hands,  and  drown. 

'I  am  the  one  who  stood  beside  you  and  smiled, 
Thinking  your  face  so  strangely  young  .    .   .  ' 
'I  am  the  one  who  loved  you  but  did  not  dare.' 
'I  am  the  one  you  followed  through  crowded  streets, 
The  one  who  escaped  you,  the  one  with  red-gleamed 
hair/ 


'I  am  the  one  you  saw  to-day,  who  fell 
Senseless  before  you,  hearing  a  certain  bell : 
A  bell  that  broke  great  memories  in  my  brain.' 
'I  am  the  one  who  passed  unnoticed  before  you, 
Invisible,  in  a  cloud  of  secret  pain.' 


'I  am  the  one  who  suddenly  cried,  beholding 
The  face  of  a  certain  man  on  the  dazzling  screen. 

[22] 


The  House  of  Dust 

They  wrote  me  that  he  was  dead.     It  was  long  ago. 
I  walked  in  the  streets  for  a  long  while,  hearing  noth 
ing, 
And  returned  to  see  it  again.     And  it  was  so/ 

Weave,  weave,  weave,  you  streaks  of  rain! 
I  am  dissolved  and  woven  again. . . 
Thousands  of  faces  rise  and  vanish  before  me. 
Thousands  of  voices  weave  in  the  rain. 

'I  am  the  one  who  rode  beside  you,  blinking 

At  a  dazzle  of  golden  lights. 

Tempests  of  music  swept  me :  I  was  thinking 

Of  the  gorgeous  promise  of  certain  nights: 

Of  the  woman  who  suddenly  smiled  at  me  this  day, 

Smiled  in  a  certain  delicious  sidelong  way, 

And  turned,  as  she  reached  the  door, 

To  smile  once  more  .  .  . 

Her  hands  are  whiter  than  snow  on  midnight  water. 

Her  throat  is  golden  and  full  of  golden  laughter, 

Her  eyes  are  strange  as  the  stealth  of  the  moon 

On  a  night  in  June.  .  . 

She  runs  among  whistling  leaves ;  I  hurry  after ; 

She  dances  in  dreams  over  white-waved  water; 

[23] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Her  body  is  white  and  fragrant  and  cool, 

Magnolia  petals  that  float  on  a  white-starred  pool. .  . 

I  have  dreamed  of  her,  dreaming  for  many  nights 

Of  a  broken  music  and  golden  lights, 

Of  broken  webs  of  silver,  heavily  falling 

Between  my  hands  and  their  white  desire: 

And  dark-leaved  boughs,  edged  with  a  golden  radiance, 

Dipping  to  screen  a  fire . . . 

I  dream  that  I  walk  with  her  beneath  high  trees, 

But  as  I  lean  to  kiss  her  face, 

She  is  blown  aloft  on  wind,  I  catch  at  leaves, 

And  run  in  a  moonless  place; 

And  I  hear  a  crashing  of  terrible  rocks  flung  down, 

And  shattering  trees  and  cracking  walls, 

And  a  net  of  intense  white  flame  roars  over  the  town, 

And  someone  cries ;  and  darkness  falls . .  . 

But  now  she  has  leaned  and  smiled  at  me, 

My  veins  are  afire  with  music, 

Her  eyes  have  kissed  me,  my  body  is  turned  to  light ; 

I  shall  dream  to  her  secret  heart  tonight  .   .   .  ' 


He  rises  and  moves  away,  he  says  no  word, 
He  folds  his  evening  paper  and  turns  away ; 

[24] 


The  House  of  Dust 

I  rush  through  the  dark  with  rows  of  lamplit  faces  ; 

Fire  bells  peal,  and  some  of  us  turn  to  listen, 

And  some  sit  motionless  in  their  accustomed  places. 

Cold  rain  lashes  the  car-roof,  scurries  in  gusts, 
Streams  down  the  windows  in  waves  and  ripples  of 

lustre ; 

The  lamps  in  the  streets  are  distorted  and  strange. 
Someone  takes  his  watch  from  his  pocket  and  yawns. 
One  peers  out  in  the  night  for  the  place  to  change. 

Rain .  .  .  rain .  .  .  rain ...  we  are  buried  in  rain, 

It  will   rain   forever,   the   swift  wheels  hiss   through 

water, 

Pale  sheets  of  water  gleam  in  the  windy  street. 
The  pealing  of  bells  is  lost  in  a  drive  of  rain-drops. 
Remote  and  hurried  the  great  bells  beat. 

'I  am  the  one  whom  life  so  shrewdly  betrayed, 
Misfortune  dogs  me,  it  always  hunted  me  down. 
And  to-day  the  woman  I  love  lies  dead. 
I  gave  her  roses,  a  ring  with  opals ; 
These  hands  have  touched  her  head. 

[25] 


The  House  of  Dust 

'I  bound  her  to  me  in  all  soft  ways, 

I  bound  her  to  me  in  a  net  of  days, 

Yet  now  she  has  gone  in  silence  and  said  no  word. 

How  can  we  face  these  dazzling  things,  I  ask  you? 

There  is  no  use :  we  cry :  and  are  not  heard. 

'They  cover  a  body  with  roses ...  I  shall  not  see  it ... 
Must  one  return  to  the  lifeless  walls  of  a  city 
Whose  soul  is  charred  by  fire  ?  .   .   .  ' 
His  eyes  are  closed,  his   lips  press  tightly  together. 
Wheels  hiss  beneath  us.     He  yields  us  our  desire. 

'No,  do  not  stare  so — he  is  weak  with  grief, 
He  cannot  face  you,  he  turns  his  eyes  aside; 
He  is  confused  with  pain. 
I  suffered  this.    I  know.    It  was  long  ago. .  . 
He  closes  his  eyes  and  drowns  in  death  again.' 

The  wind  hurls  blows  at  the  rain-starred  glistening 

windows, 

The  wind  shrills  down  from  the  half -seen  walls. 
We  flow  on  the  mournful  wind  in  a  dream  of  dying; 
And  at  last  a  silence  falls. 

[26] 


The  House  of  Dust 

VII. 

Midnight;  bells  toll,  and  along  the  cloud-high  towers 

The  golden  lights  go  out . . . 

The  yellow  windows  darken,  the  shades  are  drawn, 

In  thousands  of  rooms  we  sleep,  we  await  the  dawn, 

We  lie  face  down,  we  dream, 

We  cry  aloud  with  terror,  half  rise,  or  seem 

To  stare  at  the  ceiling  or  walls  .   .   . 

Midnight. .  .  the  last  of  shattering  bell-notes  falls. 

A  rush  of  silence  whirls  over  the  cloud-high  towers, 

A  vortex  of  soundless  hours. 

The  bells  have  just  struck  twelve :  I  should  be  sleeping. 

But  I  cannot  delay  any  longer  to  write  and  tell  you. 

The  woman  is  dead. 

She  died — you  know  the  way.    Just  as  we  planned. 

Smiling,  with  open  sunlit  eyes. 

Smiling  upon  the  outstretched  fatal  hand . .  . ' 

He  folds  his  letter,  steps  softly  down  the  stairs. 
The  doors  are  closed  and  silent.     A  gas-jet  flares. 
His  shadow  disturbs  a  shadow  of  balustrades. 
The  door  swings  shut  behind.    Night  roars  above  him. 
Into  the  night  he  fades. 

[27] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Wind ;  wind ;  wind ;  carving  the  walls  ; 

Blowing  the  water  that  gleams  in  the  street; 

Blowing  the  rain,  the  sleet. 

In  the  dark  alley,  an  old  tree  cracks  and  falls, 

Oak-boughs  moan  in  the  haunted  air; 

Lamps  blow  down  with  a  crash  and  tinkle  of  glass  .  .  . 

Darkness  whistles.  .  .Wild  hours  pass. . . 


And  those  whom  sleep  eludes  lie  wide-eyed,  hearing 

Above  their  heads  a  goblin  night  go  by; 

Children  are  waked,  and  cry, 

The  young  girl  hears  the  roar  in  her  sleep,  and  dreams 

That  her  lover  is  caught  in  a  burning  tower, 

She   clutches   the  pillow,   she   gasps   for  breath,   she 

screams  .   .   . 

And  then  by  degrees  her  breath  grows  quiet  and  slow, 
She  dreams  of  an  evening,  long  ago: 
Of  colored  lanterns  balancing  under  trees, 
Some  of  them  softly  catching  afire; 
And  beneath  the  lanterns  a  motionless  face  she  sees, 
Golden  with  lamplight,  smiling,  serene. .  . 
The  leaves  are  a  pale  and  glittering  green, 

[28] 


The  House  of  Dust 

The  sound  of  horns  blows  over  the  trampled  grass, 

Shadows  of  dancers  pass . .  . 

The  face  smiles  closer  to  hers,  she  tries  to  lean 

Backward,  away,  the  eyes  burn  close  and  strange, 

The  face  is  beginning  to  change, — 

It  is  her  lover,  she  no  longer  desires  to  resist, 

She  is  held  and  kissed. 

She  closes  her  eyes,  and  melts  in  a  seethe  of  flame  .  .  . 

With  a  smoking  ghost  of  shame. .  . 

Wind,  wind,  wind . .  .  Wind  in  an  enormous  brain 

Blowing  dark  thoughts  like  fallen  leaves . . . 

The  wind  shrieks,  the  wind  grieves ; 

It  dashes  the  leaves  on  walls,  it  whirls  then  again; 

And  the  enormous  sleeper  vaguely  and  stupidly  dreams 

And  desires  to  stir,  to  resist  a  ghost  of  pain. 

One,  whom  the  city  imprisoned  because  of  his  cunning, 
Who  dreamed  for  years  in  a  tower, 
Seizes  this  hour 

Of  tumult  and  wind.    He  files  through  the  rusted  bar, 
Leans  his  face  to  the  rain,  laughs  up  at  the  night, 
Slides  down  the  knotted  sheet,  swings  over  the  wall, 
To  fall  to  the  street  with  a  cat-like  fall, 

[29] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Slinks  round  a  quavering  rim  of  windy  light, 

And  at  last  is  gone, 

Leaving  his  empty  cell  for  the  pallor  of  dawn. .  . 

The  mother  whose  child  was  buried  to-day 

Turns  her  face  to  the  window;  her  face  is  grey; 

And  all  her  body  is  cold  with  the  coldness  of  rain. 

He  would  have  grown  as  easily  as  a  tree, 

He  would  have  spread  a  pleasure  of  shade  above  her, 

He  would  have  been  his  father  again  .   .   . 

His  growth  was  ended  by  a  freezing  invisible  shadow. 

She  lies,  and  does  not  move,  and  is  stabbed  by  the  rain. 

Wind,  wind,  wind;  we  toss  and  dream; 

We  dream  we  are  clouds  and  stars,  blown  in  a  stream : 

Windows  rattle  above  our  beds; 

We  reach  vague-gesturing  hands,  we  lift  our  heads, 

Hear    sounds    far    off, — and    dream,    with    quivering 

breath, 
Our  curious  separate  ways  through  life  and  death. 

VIII. 

The  white  fog  creeps  from  the  cold  sea  over  the  city, 
Over  the  pale  grey  tumbled  towers, — 

[30-] 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  settles  among  the  roofs,  the  pale  grey  walls. 
Along  damp  sinuous  streets  it  crawls, 
Curls  like  a  dream  among  the  motionless  trees 
And  seems  to  freeze. 

The  fog  slips  ghostlike  into  a  thousand  rooms, 
Whirls  over  sleeping  faces, 

Spins  in  an  atomy  dance  round  misty  street  lamps; 
And  blows  in  cloudy  waves  over  open  spaces . .  . 

And  one  from  his  high  bright  window,  looking  down, 
Peers  at  the  cloud-white  town, 
And  thinks  its  island  towers  are  like  a  dream  .   .   . 
It  seems  an  enormous  sleeper,  within  whose  brain 
Laborious  shadows  revolve  and  break  and  gleam. 


[31] 


PART  II. 

i. 

The  round  red  sun  heaves  darkly  out  of  the  sea. 
The  walls  and  towers  are  warmed  and  gleam. 
Sounds  go  drowsily  up  from  streets  and  wharves. 
The  city  stirs  like  one  that  is  half  in  dream. 

And  the  mist  flows  up  by  dazzling  walls  and  windows, 
Where  one  by  one  we  wake  and  rise. 
We  gaze  at  the  pale  grey  lustrous    sea  a  moment, 
We  rub  the  darkness  from  our  eyes, 

And  face  our  thousand  devious  secret  mornings  .  .  . 
And  do  not  see  how  the  pale  mist,  slowly  ascending, 
Shaped  by  the  sun,  shines  like  a  white-robed  dreamer 
Compassionate  over  our  towers  bending. 

There,  like  one  who  gazes  into  a  crystal, 
He  broods  upon  our  city  with  sombre  eyes ; 
He  sees  our  secret  fears  vaguely  unfolding, 
Sees  cloudy  symbols  shape  to  rise. 

[32] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Each  gleaming  point  of  light  is  like  a  seed 
Dilating  swiftly  to  coiling  fires. 
Each  cloud  becomes  a  rapidly  dimming  face, 
Each  hurrying  face  records  its  strange  desires. 

We  descend  our  separate  stairs  toward  the  day, 
Merge  in  the  somnolent  mass  that  fills  the  street, 
Lift  our  eyes  to  the  soft  blue  space  of  sky, 
And  walk  by  the  well-known  walls  with  accustomed 
feet. 

ii. 

More  towers   must   yet   be   built — more   towers   de 
stroyed — 

Great  rocks  hoisted  in  air; 

And  he  must  seek  his  bread  in  high  pale  sunlight 
With  gulls  about  him,  and  clouds  just  over  his  eyes  . . . 
And  so  he  did  not  mention  his  dream  of  falling 
But  drank  his  coffee  in  silence,  and  heard  in  his  ears 
That  horrible  whistle  of  wind,  and  felt  his  breath 
Sucked  out  of  him,  and  saw  the  tower  flash  by 
And  the  small  tree  swell  beneath  him . . . 

[33] 


The  House  of  Dust 

He  patted  his  boy  on  the  head,  and  kissed  his  wife, 
Looked  quickly  around  the  room,  to  remember  it, — 
And  so  went  out  .  .  .  For  once,  he  forgot  his  pail. 

Something  had  changed — but  it  was  not  the  street — 
The  street  was  just  the  same — it  was  himself. 
Puddles  flashed  in  the  sun.     In  the  pawn-shop  door 
The  same  old  black  cat  winked  green  amber  eyes; 
The  butcher  stood  by  his  window  tying  his  apron; 
The  same  men  walked  beside  him,  smoking  pipes, 
Reading  the  morning  paper. .  . 

He  would  not  yield,  he  thought,  and  walk  more  slowly, 
As  if  he  knew  for  certain  he  walked  to  death  : 
But  with  his  usual  pace, — deliberate,  firm, 
Looking  about  him  calmly,  watching  the  world, 
Taking  his  ease.  .  .   Yet,  when  he  thought  again 
Of  the  same  dream,  now  dreamed  three  separate  times, 
Always  the  same,  and  heard  that  whistling  wind, 

And  saw  the  windows  flashing  upward  past  him, 

He  slowed  his  pace  a  little,  and  thought  with  horror 
How  monstrously  that  small  tree  thrust  to  meet  him ! . . 
He  slowed  his  pace  a  little  and  remembered  his  wife. 

[34] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Was  forty,  then,  too  old  for  work  like  this? 

Why  should  it  be?     He'd  never  been  afraid — 

His  eye  was  sure,  his  hand  was  steady.  .  . 

But  dreams  had  meanings. 

He  walked  more  slowly,  and  looked  along  the  roofs, 

All  built  by  men,  and  saw  the  pale  blue  sky; 

And  suddenly  he  was  dizzy  with  looking  at  it, 

It  seemed  to  whirl  and  swim, 

It  seemed  the  color  of  terror,  of  speed,  of  death. .  . 

He  lowered  his  eyes  to  the  stones,  he  walked  more 

slowly ; 

His  thoughts  were  blown  and  scattered  like  leaves  ; 
He  thought  of  the  pail .  .  Why,  then,  was  it  forgotten  ? 
Because  he  would  not  need  it? 


Then,  just  as  he  was  grouping  his  thoughts  again 
About  that  drug-store  corner,  under  an  arc-lamp, 
Where  first  he  met  the  girl  whom  he  would  marry, — 
That  blue-eyed  innocent  girl,  in  a  soft  blouse, — 
He  waved  his  hand  for  signal,  and  up  he  went 
In  the  dusty  chute  that  hugged  the  wall; 
Above  the  tree;  from  girdered  floor  to  floor; 

[35] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Above  the  flattening  roofs,  until  the  sea 

Lay  wide  and  waved  before  him  .    .    .  And  then  he 

stepped 

Giddily  out,  from  that  security, 
To  the  red  rib  of  iron  against  the  sky, 
And  walked  along  it,  feeling  it  sing  and  tremble; 
And  looking  down  one  instant,  saw  the  tree 
Just  as  he  dreamed  it  was;  and  looked  away, 
And  up  again,  feeling  his  blood  go  wild. 

He  gave  the  signal;  the  long  girder  swung 
Closer  upon  him,  dropped  clanging  into  place, 
Almost  pushing  him  off.     Pneumatic  hammers 
Began  their  madhouse  clatter,  the  white-hot  rivets 
Were  tossed  from  below  and  deftly  caught  in  pails ; 
He  signalled  again,  and  wiped  his  mouth,  and  thought 
A  place  so  high  in  the  air  should  be  more  quiet. 
The  tree,  far  down  below,  teased  at  his  eyes, 
Teased  at  the  corners  of  them,  until  he  looked, 
And  felt  his  body  go  suddenly  small  and  light; 
Felt  his  brain  float  off  like  a  dwindling  vapor; 
And  heard  a  whistle  of  wind,  and  saw  a  tree 
Come  plunging  up  to  him,  and  thought  to  himself, 
'By  God — I'm  done  for  now,  the  dream  was  right .  . . ' 

[36] 


The  House  of  Dust 

in. 

The  warm  sun  dreams  in  the  dust,  the  warm  sun  falls 
On  bright  red  roofs  and  walls; 
The  trees  in  the  park  exhale  a  ghost  of  rain ; 
We  go  from  door  to  door  in  the  streets  again, 
Talking,  laughing,  dreaming,  turning  our  faces, 
Recalling  other  times  and  places . . . 
We  crowd,  not  knowing  why,  around  a  gate, 
We  crowd  together  and  wait, 
A  stretcher  is  carried  out,  voices  are  stilled, 
The  ambulance  drives  away. 
We  watch  its  roof  flash  by,  hear  someone  say 
'A  man  fell  off  the  building  and  was  killed — 
Fell  right  into  a  barrel . .  . '  We  turn  again 
Among  the  frightened  eyes  of  white- faced  men, 
And  go  our  separate  ways,  each  bearing  with  him 
A  thing  he  tries,  but  vainly,  to  forget, — 
A  sickened  crowd,  a  stretcher  red  and  wet. 

A  hurdy-gurdy  sings  in  the  crowded  street, 

The  golden  notes  skip  over  the  sunlit  stones, 

Wings  are  upon  our  feet. 

The  sun  seems  warmer,  the  winding  street  more  bright, 

Sparrows  come  whirring  down  in  a  cloud  of  light. 

[37] 


The  House  of  Dust 

We  bear  our  dreams  among  us,  bear  them  all, 

Like  hurdy-gurdy  music  they  rise  and  fall, 

Climb  to  beauty  and  die. 

The  wandering  lover  dreams  of  his  lover's  mouth, 

And  smiles  at  the  hostile  sky. 

The  broker  smokes  his  pipe,  and  sees  a  fortune. 

The  murderer  hears  a  cry. 


IV. 

'Draw  three  cards,  and  I  will  tell  your  future  .   .   . 

Draw  three  cards,  and  lay  them  down, 

Rest  your  palms  upon  them,  stare  at  the  crystal, 

And  think  of  time  .   .   .  My  father  was  a  clown, 

My  mother  was  a  gypsy  out  of  Egypt; 

And  she  was  gotten  with  child  in  a  strange  way; 

And  I  was  born  in  a  cold  eclipse  of  the  moon, 

With  the  future  in  my  eyes  as  clear  as  day/ 

I  sit  before  the  gold-embroidered  curtain 
And  think  her  face  is  like  a  wrinkled  desert. 
The  crystal  burns  in  lamplight  beneath  my  eyes. 
A  dragon  slowly  coils  on  the  scaly  curtain. 
Upon  a  scarlet  cloth  a  white  skull  lies. 

[38] 


The  House  of  Dust 

'Your  hand  is  on  the  hand  that  holds  three  lilies. 
You  will  live  long,  love  many  times. 
I  see  a  dark  girl  here  who  once  betrayed  you. 
I  see  a  shadow  of  secret  crimes. 

'There  was  a  man  who  came  intent  to  kill  you, 
And  hid  behind  a  door  and  waited  for  you; 
There  was  a  woman  who  smiled  at  you  and  lied. 
There  was  a  golden  girl  who  loved  you,  begged  you, 
Crawled  after  you,  and  died. 

There  is  a  ghost  of  murder  in  your  blood — 
Coming  or  past,  I  know  not  which. 
And  here  is  danger — a  woman  with  sea-green  eyes, 
And  white-skinned  as  a  witch. .  .' 

The  words  hiss  into  me,  like  raindrops  falling 
On  sleepy  fire  .    .    .  She  smiles  a  meaning  smile. 
Suspicion  eats  my  brain ;  I  ask  a  question  ; 
Something  is  creeping  at  me,  something  vile; 

And  suddenly  on  the  wall  behind  her  head 
I  see  a  monstrous  shadow  strike  and  spread, 

[39] 


The  House  of  Dust 

The  lamp  puffs  out,  a  great  blow  crashes  down. 

I  plunge  through  the  curtain,  run  through  dark  to  the 

street, 
And  hear  swift  steps  retreat.  . . 

The  shades  are  drawn,  the  door  is  locked  behind  me. 

Behind  the  door  I  hear  a  hammer  sounding. 

I  walk  in  a  cloud  of  wonder;  I  am  glad. 

I  mingle  among  the  crowds ;  my  heart  is  pounding  ; 

You  do  not  guess  the  adventure  I  have  had ! . . . 

Yet  you,  too,  all  have  had  your  dark  adventures, 
Your  sudden  adventures,  or  strange,  or  sweet 
My  peril  goes  out  from  me,  is  blown  among  you. 
We  loiter,  dreaming  together,  along  the  street. 


v. 

Round  white  clouds  roll  slowly  above  the  housetops, 
Over  the  clear  red  roofs  they  flow  and  pass. 
A  flock  of  pigeons  rises  with  blue  wings  flashing, 
Rises  with  whistle  of  wings,  hovers  an  instant, 
And  settles  slowly  again  on  the  tarnished  grass. 

[40] 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  one  old  man  looks  down  from  a  dusty  window 
And  sees  the  pigeons  circling  about  the  fountain 
And  desires  once  more  to  walk  among  those  trees. 
Lovers  walk  in  the  noontime  by  that  fountain. 
Pigeons  dip  their  beaks  to  drink  from  the  water. 
And  soon  the  pond  must  freeze. 

The  light  wind  blows  to  his  ears  a  sound  of  laughter, 

Young  men  shuffle  their  feet,  loaf  in  the  sunlight; 

A  girl's  laugh  rings  like  a  silver  bell. 

But  clearer  than  all  these  sounds  is  a  sound  he  hears 

More  in  his  secret  heart  than  in  his  ears, — 

A  hammer's  steady  crescendo,  like  a  knell. 

He  hears  the  snarl  of  pineboards  under  the  plane, 

The  rhythmic  saw,  and  then  the  hammer  again, — 

Playing  with  delicate  strokes  that  sombre  scale  .   .    . 

And  the  fountain  dwindles,  the  sunlight  seems  to  pale. 

Time  is  a  dream,  he  thinks,  a  destroying  dream; 
It  lays  great  cities  in  dust,  it  fills  the  seas; 
It  covers  the  face  of  beauty,  and  tumbles  walls. 
Where  was  the  woman  he  loved?     Where  was  his 

youth  ? 

Where  was  the  dream  that  burned  his  brain  like  fire  ? 
Even  a  dream  grows  grey  at  last  and  falls. 

[41] 


The  House  of  Dust 

He  opened  his  book  once  more,  beside  the  window, 
And  read  the  printed  words  upon  that  page. 
The  sunlight  touched  his  hand ;  his  eyes  moved  slowly, 
The  quiet  words  enchanted  time  and  age. 

'Death  is  never  an  ending,  death  is  a  change; 
Death  is  beautiful,  for  death  is  strange ; 
Death  is  one  dream  out  of  another  flowing; 
Death  is  a  chorded  music,  softly  going 
By  sweet  transition  frim  key  to  richer  key. 
Death  is  a  meeting  place  of  sea  and  sea.' 


VI. 

She  turned  her  head  on  the  pillow,  and  cried  once 

more. 

And  drawing  a  shaken  breath,  and  closing  her  eyes, 
To  shut  out,  if  she  could,  this  dingy  room, 
The  wigs  and  costumes  scattered  around  the  floor, — 
Yellows  and  greens  in  the  dark, — she  walked  again 
Those   nightmare   streets   which   she  had   walked   so 

often  .    .    . 

Here,  at  a  certain  corner,  under  an  arc-lamp, 
Blown  by  a  bitter  wind,  she  stopped  and  looked 

[42] 


The  House  of  Dust 

In  through  the  brilliant  windows  of  a  drug-store, 
And  wondered  if  she  dared  to  ask  for  poison: 
But  it  was  late,  few  customers  were  there, 
The  eyes  of  all  the  clerks  would  freeze  upon  her, 
And  she  would  wilt,  and  cry.  .  .  Here,  by  the  river, 
She  listened  to  the  water  slapping  the  wall, 
And  felt  queer  fascination  in  its  blackness : 
But  it  was  cold,  the  little  waves  looked  cruel, 
The  stars  were  keen,  and  a  windy  dash  of  spray 
Struck  her  cheek,  and  withered  her  veins .  .  .  And  so 
She  dragged  herself  once  more  to  home,  and  bed. 

Paul  hadn't  guessed  it  yet — though  twice,  already, 
She'd  fainted — once,  the  first  time,  on  the  stage. 
So  she  must  tell  him  soon — or  else — get  out  .   .   . 
How  could  she  say  it?     That  was  the  hideous  thing. 
She'd  rather  die  than  say  it !  .   .   .  and  all  the  trouble, 
Months  when  she  couldn't  earn  a  cent,  and  then, 
If  he  refused  to  marry  her.  .  .  well,  what? 
She  saw  him  laughing,  making  a  foolish  joke, 
His  grey  eyes  turning  quickly ;  and  the  words 
Fled  from  her  tongue.  .  .   She  saw  him  sitting  silent, 
Brooding  over  his  morning  coffee,  maybe, 
And  tried  again .  .  .   she  bit  her  lips,  and  trembled, 

[43] 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  looked  away,  and  said  .  .'Say  Paul,  boy, — listen — 
There's  something  I  must  tell  you  .    .    .  '  There  she 

stopped, 

Wondering  what  he'd  say. .  .  What  would  he  say? 
'Spring  it,  kid!     Don't  look  so  serious!' 
'But  what  I've  got  to  say — is — serious !' 
Then  she  could  see  how,  suddenly,  he  would  sober, 
His  eyes  would  darken,  he'd  look  so  terrifying — 
He  always  did —  and  what  could  she  do  but  cry? 
Perhaps,  then,  he  would  guess — perhaps  he  wouldn't. 
And  if  he  didn't,  but  asked  her  'What's  the  matter?'— 
She  knew  she'd  never  tell — just  say  she  was  sick.  .  . 
And  after  that,  when  would  she  dare  again? 
And  what  would  he  do — even  suppose  she  told  him  ? 

If  it  were  Felix!  If  it  were  only  Felix! — 
She  wouldn't  mind  so  much.     But  as  it  was, 
Bitterness  choked  her,  she  had  half  a  mind 
To  pay  out  Felix  for  never  having  liked  her, 
By  making  people  think  that  it  was  he  ... 
She'd  write  a  letter  to  someone,  before  she  died, — 
Just  saying  'Felix  did  it — and  wouldn't  marry.' 
And  then  she'd  die. . .  But  that  was  hard  on  Paul. .  . 

[44] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Paul  would  never  forgive  her — he'd  never  forgive  her ! 
Sometimes  she  almost  thought  Paul  really  loved  her  .  . 
She  saw  him  look  reproachfully  at  her  coffin. 

And  then  she  closed  her  eyes  and  walked  again 

Those  nightmare  streets  that  she  had  walked  so  often : 

Under  an  arc-lamp  swinging  in  the  wind 

She  stood,  and  stared  in  through  a  drug-store  window, 

Watching  a  clerk  wrap  up  a  little  pill-box. 

But  it  was  late.     No  customers  were  there, — 

Pitiless  eyes  would  freeze  her  secret  in  her ! 

And  then — what  poison  would  she  dare  to  ask  for? 

And  if  they  asked  her  why,  what  would  she  say? 


VII. 

Two  lovers,  here  at  the  corner,  by  the  steeple, 
Two  lovers  blow  together  like  music  blowing: 
And  the  crowd  dissolves  about  them  like  a  sea. 
Recurring  waves  of  sound  break  vaguely  about  them, 
They  drift  from  wall  to  wall,  from  tree  to  tree. 

[45] 


The  House  of  Dust 

'Well,  am  I  late?'     Upward  they  look  and  laugh, 
They  look  at  the  great  clock's  golden  hands, 
They  laugh  and  talk,  not  knowing  what  they  say : 
Only,  their  words  like  music  seem  to  play; 
And  seeming  to  walk,  they  tread  strange  sarabands. 

'I  brought  you  this  .  .  .  '  the  soft  words  float  like  stars 

Down  the  smooth  heaven  of  her  memory. 

She  stands  again  by  a  garden  wall, 

The  peach  tree  is  in  bloom,  pink  blossoms  fall, 

Water  sings  from  an  opened  tap,  the  bees 

Glisten  and  murmur  among  the  trees. 

Someone  calls  from  the  house.     She  does  not  answer. 

Backward  she  leans  her  head, 

And  dreamily  smiles  at  the  peach-tree  leaves,  where 
through 

She  sees  an  infinite  May  sky  spread 

A  vault  profoundly  blue. 

The  voice  from  the  house  fades  far  away, 

The  glistening  leaves  more  vaguely  ripple  and  sway  .  . 

The  tap  is  closed,  the  water  ceases  to  hiss  .    .    . 

Silence  .    .    .  blue  sky  .    .    .  and  then,  'I  brought  you 
this  .   .   .  ' 

[46] 


The  House  of  Dust 

She  turns  again,  and  smiles  .   .   .  He  does  not  know 
She  smiles  from  long  ago  .   .   . 

She  turns  to  him  and  smiles  .   .   .  Sunlight  above  him 

Roars  like  a  vast  invisible  sea, 

Gold  is  beaten  before  him,  shrill  bells  of  silver; 

He  is  released  of  weight,  his  body  is  free, 

He  lifts  his  arms  to  swim, 

Dark  years  like  sinister  tides  coil  under  him  .    .   . 

The  lazy  sea-waves  crumble  along  the  beach 

With  a  whirring  sound  like  wind  in  bells, 

He  lies  outstretched  on  the  yellow  wind-worn  sands 

Reaching  his  lazy  hands 

Among  the  golden  grains  and  sea-white  shells  .    .    . 

'One  white  rose  .   .   .  or  is  it  pink,  to-day?' 
They  pause  and  smile,  not  caring  what  they  say, 
If  only  they  may  talk. 

The  crowd  flows  past  them  like  dividing  waters. 
Dreaming  they  stand,  dreaming  they  walk. 

'Pink, — to-day!' — Face  turns  to  dream-bright  face, 
Green  leaves  rise  round  them,  sunshine  settles  upon 
them, 

[47] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Water,  in  drops  of  silver,  falls  from  the  rose. 

She  smiles  at  a  face  that  smiles  through  leaves  from 

the  mirror. 
She  breathes  the  fragrance ;  her  dark  eyes  close  .   .   . 


Time  is  dissolved,  it  blows  like  a  little  dust : 

Time,  like  a  flurry  of  rain, 

Patters  and  passes,  starring  the  window-pane. 

Once,  long  ago,  one  night, 

She  saw  the  lightning,  with  long  blue  quiver  of  light, 

Ripping  the  darkness  .   .   .  and  as  she  turned  in  terror 

A  soft  face  leaned  above  her,  leaned  softly  down, 

Softly  around  her  a  breath  of  roses  was  blown, 

She  sank  in  waves  of  quiet,  she  seemed  to  float 

In  a  sea  of  silence  .  .  .  and  soft  steps  grew  remote  .   . 


'Well,  let  us  walk  in  the  park  .   .   .  The  sun  is  warm, 
We'll  sit  on  a  bench  and  talk  .    .    .  '     They  turn  and 

glide, 

The  crowd  of  faces  wavers  and  breaks  and  flows. 
'Look  how  the  oak-tops  turn  to  gold  in  the  sunlight! 
Look  how  the  tower  is  changed  and  glows !' 

[48] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Two  lovers  move  in  the  crowd  like  a  link  of  music, 
We  press  upon  them,  we  hold  them,  and  let  them  pass ; 
A  chord  of  music  strikes  us  and  straight  we  tremble; 
We  tremble  like  wind-blown  grass. 

What  was  this  dream  we  had,  a  dream  of  music, 
Music  that  rose  from  the  opening  earth  like  magic 
And  shook  its  beauty  upon  us  and  died  away? 
The  long  cold  streets  extend  once  more  before  us. 
The  red  sun  drops,  the  walls  grow  grey. 


VIII. 

Well, — it  was  two  days  after  my  husband  died— 

Two  days !     And  the  earth  still  raw  above  him. 

And  I  was  sweeping  the  carpet  in  their  hall. 

In  number  four — the  room  with  the  red  wall-paper — 

Some  chorus  girls  and  men  were  singing  that  song 

'They'll  soon  be  lighting  candles 

Round  a  box  with  silver  handles' — and  hearing  them 

sirig  it 

I  started  to  cry.     Just  then  he  came  along 
And  stopped  on  the  stairs  and  turned  and  looked  at  me, 
And  took  the  cigar  from  his  mouth  and  sort  of  smiled 

[49] 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  said,  'Say,  what's  the  matter?'  and  then  came 

down 

Where  I  was  leaning  against  the  wall, 
And  touched  my  shoulder,  and  put  his  arm  around 

me  .   .   . 

And  I  was  so  sad,  thinking  about  it, — 
Thinking  that  it  was  raining,  and  a  cold  night, 
With  Jim  so  unaccustomed  to  being  dead, — 
That  I  was  happy  to  have  him  sympathize, 
To  feel  his  arm,  and  leaned  against  him  and  cried. 
And  before  I  knew  it,  he  got  me  into  a  room 
Where  a  table  was  set,  and  no  one  there, 
And  sat  me  down  on  a  sofa,  and  held  me  close, 
And  talked  to  me,  telling  me  not  to  cry, 
That  it  was  all  right,  he'd  look  after  me,— 
But  not  to  cry,  my  eyes  were  getting  red, 
Which  did'nt  make  me  pretty.     And  he  was  so  nice, 
That  when  he  turned  my  face  between  his  hands, 
And  looked  at  me,  with  those  blue  eyes  of  his, 
And  smiled,  and  leaned,  and  kissed  me — 
Somehow  I  couldn't  tell  him  not  to  do  it, 
Somehow  I  didn't  mind,  I  let  him  kiss  me, 
And  closed  my  eyes !  .  .  .  Well,  that  was  how  it  started. 

[50] 


The  House  of  Dust 

For  when  my  heart  was  eased  with  crying,  and  grief 
Had  passed  and  left  me  quiet,  somehow  it  seemed 
As  if  it  wasn't  honest  to  change  my  mind, 
To  send  him  away,  or  say  I  hadn't  meant  it — 
And,  anyway,  it  seemed  so  hard  to  explain ! 
And  so  we  sat  and  talked,  not  talking  much, 
But  meaning  as  much  in  silence  as  in  words, 
There  in  that  empty  room  with  palms  about  us, 
That  private  dining-room  .    .    .  And  as  we  sat  there 
I  felt  my  future  changing,  day  by  day, 
With  unknown  streets  opening  left  and  right, 
New  streets  with  farther  lights,  new  taller  houses, 
Doors  swinging  into  hallways  filled  with  light, 
Half-opened  luminous  windows,  with  white  curtains 
Streaming  out  in  the  night,  and  sudden  music, — 
And  thinking  of  this,  and  through  it  half  remembering 
A  quick  and  horrible  death,  my  husband's  eyes, 
The  broken-plastered  walls,  my  boy  asleep, — 
It  seemed  as  if  my  brain  would  break  in  two. 
My  voice  began  to  tremble  .   .   .  and  when  I  stood, 
And  told  him  I  must  go,  and  said  good-night — 
I  couldn't  see  the  end.     How  would  it  end? 
Would  he  return  tomorrow?     Or  would  he  not? 
And  did  I  want  him  to — or  would  I  rather 

[51] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Look  for  another  job? — He  took  my  shoulders 
Between  his  hands,  and  looked  down  into  my  eyes, 
And  smiled,  and  said  good-night.    If  he  had  kissed  me, 
That  would  have — well,  I  don't  know ;  but  he  didn't  .  . 
And  so  I  went  downstairs,  then,  half  elated, 
Hoping  to  close  the  door  before  that  party 
In  number  four  should  sing  that  song  again — 
'They'll  soon  be  lighting  candles  round  a  box  with 

silver  handles' — 

And  sure  enough,  I  did.     I  faced  the  darkness. 
And  my  eyes  were  filled  with  tears.     And  I  was  happy. 


IX. 

The  days,  the  nights,  flow  one  by  one  above  us, 
The  hours  go  silently  over  our  lifted  faces, 
We  are  like  dreamers  who  walk  beneath  a  sea. 
Beneath  high  walls  we  flow  in  the  sun  together. 
We  sleep,  we  wake,  we  laugh,  we  pursue,  we  flee. 

We  sit  at  tables  and  sip  our  morning  coffee, 
We  read  the  papers  for  tales  of  lust  or  crime. 
The  door  swings  shut  behind  the  latest  comer. 
We  set  our  watches,  regard  the  time. 

[52] 


The  House  of  Dust 

What  have  we  done?     I  close  my  eyes,  remember 
The  great  machine  whose  sinister  brain  before  me 
Smote  and  smote  with  a  rhythmic  beat. 
My  hands  have  torn  down  walls,  the  stone  and  plaster. 
I  dropped  great  beams  to  the  dusty  street. 

My  eyes  are  worn  with  measuring  cloths  of  purple, 
And  golden  cloths,  and  wavering  cloths,  and  pale. 
I  dream  of  a  crowd  of  faces,  white  with  menace. 
Hands  reach  up  to  tear  me.     My  brain  will  fail. 


Here,  where  the  walls  go  down  beneath  our  picks, 
These  walls  whose  windows  gap  against  the  sky, 
Atom  by  atom  of  flesh  and  brain  and  marble 
Will  build  a  glittering  tower  before  we  die  .   .   . 

The  young  boy  whistles,  hurrying  down  the  street, 
The  young  girl  hums  beneath  her  breath. 
One  goes  out  to  beauty,  and  does  not  know  it. 
And  one  goes  out  to  death. 


[53] 


The  House  of  Dust 

x. 

'Number  four — the  girl  who  died  on  the  table — 
The  girl  with  golden  hair — ' 
The  purpling  body  lies  on  the  polished  marble. 
We  open  the  throat,  and  lay  the  thyroid  bare  .   .   . 

One,  who  held  the  ether-cone,  remembers 

Her  dark  blue  frightened  eyes. 

He  heard  the  sharp  breath  quiver,  and  saw  her  breast 

More  hurriedly  fall  and  rise. 

Her  hands  made  futile  gestures,  she  turned  her  head 

Fighting  for  breath;  her  cheeks  were  flushed  to  scar- 

let- 
And,  suddenly,  she  lay  dead. 

And  all  the  dreams  that  hurried  along  her  veins 
Came  to  the  darkness  of  a  sudden  wall. 
Confusion  ran  among  them,  they  whirled  and  clam 
ored, 

They  fell,  they  rose,  they  struck,  they  shouted, 
Till  at  last  a  pallor  of  silence  hushed  them  all. 


What  was  her  name?     Where  had  she  walked  that 

[54] 


morning? 


The  House  of  Dust 

Through  what  dark  forest  came  her  feet? 
Along  what  sunlit  walls,  what  peopled  street? 

Backward  he  dreamed  along  a  chain  of  days, 
He  saw  her  go  her  strange  and  secret  ways, 
Waking  and  sleeping,  noon  and  night. 
She  sat  by  a  mirror,  braiding  her  golden  hair. 
She  read  a  story  by  candlelight. 

Her  shadow  ran  before  her  along  the  street, 

She  walked  with  rhythmic  feet, 

Turned  a  corner,  descended  a  stair. 

She  bought  a  paper,  held  it  to  scan  the  headlines, 

Smiled  for  a  moment  at  sea-gulls  high  in  sunlight, 

And  drew  deep  breaths  of  air. 

Days  passed,  bright  clouds  of  days.     Nights  passed. 

And  music 

Murmured  within  the  walls  of  lighted  windows. 
She  lifted  her  face  to  the  light  and  danced. 
The  dancers  wreathed  and  grouped  in  moving  patterns, 
Clustered,  receded,  streamed,  advanced. 

Her  dress  was  purple,  her  slippers  were  golden, 
Her  eyes  were  blue ;  and  a  purple  orchid 

[55] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Opened  its  golden  heart  on  her  breast  .   .   . 
She  leaned  to  the  surly  languor  of  lazy  music, 
Leaned  on  her  partner's  arm  to  rest. 

The  violins  were  weaving  a  weft  of  silver, 
The  horns  were  weaving  a  lustrous  brede  of  gold, 
And  time  was  caught  in  a  glistening  pattern, 
Time,  too  elusive  to  hold  .    .   . 

Shadows  of  leaves  fell  over  her  face, — and  sunlight: 

She  turned  her  face  away. 

Nearer  she  moved  to  a  crouching  darkness 

With  every  step  and  day. 

Death,  who  at  first  had  thought  of  her  only  an  instant, 

At  a  great  distance,  across  the  night, 

Smiled  from  a  window  upon  her,  and  followed  her 

slowly 
From  purple  light  to  light. 

Once,  in  her  dreams,  he  spoke  out  clearly,  crying, 

'  'I  am  the  murderer,  death. 

I  am  the  lover  who  keeps  his  appointment 

At  the  doors  of  breath !' 

[56] 


The  House  of  Dust 

She  rose  and  stared  at  her  own  reflection, 

Half  dreading  there  to  find 

The  dark-eyed  ghost,  waiting  beside  her, 

Or  reaching  from  behind 

To  lay  pale  hands  upon  her  shoulders  .   . 

Or  was  this  in  her  mind?  . 


She  combed  her  hair.     The  sunlight  glimmered 

Along  the  tossing  strands. 

Was  there  a  stillness  in  this  hair, — 

A  quiet  in  these  hands? 

Death  was  a  dream.     It  could  not  change  these  eyes, 

Blow  out  their  light,  or  turn  this  mouth  to  dust. 

She   combed   her   hair   and    sang.      She   would   live 

forever. 

Leaves  flew  past  her  window  along  a  gust  .  .  . 
And  graves  were  dug  in  the  earth,  and  coffins  passed, 
And  music  ebbed  with  the  ebbing  hours. 
And   dreams   went   along  her  veins,   and   scattering 

clouds 
Threw  streaming  shadows  on  walls  and  towers. 


[57] 


The  House  of  Dust 

XT. 

Snow  falls.     The  sky  is  grey,  and  sullenly  glares 

With  purple  lights  in  the  canyoned  street. 

The    fiery    sign    on    the    dark    tower    wreathes    and 

flares  .    .   . 

The  trodden  grass  in  the  park  is  covered  with  white, 
The  streets  grow  silent  beneath  our  feet  .    .    . 
The  city  dreams,  it  forgets  its  past  to-night. 

And  one,  from  his  high  bright  window  looking  down 

Over  the  enchanted  whiteness  of  the  town, 

Seeing  through  whirls  of  white  the  vague  grey  towers, 

Desires  like  this  to  forget  what  will  not  pass, 

The  littered  papers,  the  dust,  the  tarnished  grass, 

Grey  death,  stale  ugliness,  and  sodden  hours. 

Deep  in  his  heart  old  bells  are  beaten  again, 

Slurred  bells  of  grief  and  pain, 

Dull  echoes  of  hideous  times  and  poisonous  places. 

He  desires  to  drown  in  a  cold  white  peace  of  snow. 

He  desires  to  forget  a  million  faces  .   .   . 

In  one  room  breathes  a  woman  who  dies  of  hunger. 
The  clock  ticks  slowly  and  stops.     And  no  one  winds 
it. 

[58] 


The  House  of  Dust 

In  one  room  fade  grey  violets  in  a  vase. 
Snow  flakes  faintly  hiss  and  melt  on  the  window. 
In  one  room,  minute  by  minute,  the  flutist  plays 
The  lamplit  page  of  music,  the  tireless  scales. 
His  hands  are  trembling,  his  short  breath  fails. 

In  one  room,  silently,  lover  looks  upon  lover, 
And  thinks  the  air  is  fire. 

The  drunkard  swears  and  touches  the  harlot's  heart 
strings 
With  the  sudden  hand  of  desire. 

And  one  goes  late  in  the  streets,  and  thinks  of  murder; 
And  one  lies  staring,  and  thinks  of  death. 
And  one,  who  has  suffered,  clenches  her  hands  de 
spairing, 
And  holds  her  breath  .   .    . 

Who  are  all  these,  who  flow  in  the  veins  of  the  city, 

Coil  and  revolve  and  dream, 

Vanish  or  gleam? 

Some  mount  up  to  the  brain  and  flower  in  fire. 

Some  are  destroyed ;  some  die ;  some  slowly  stream. 

[59] 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  the  new  are  born  who  desire  to  destroy  the  old; 
And  fires  are  kindled  and  quenched;  and  dreams  are 

broken, 

And  walls  flung  down  .   .   . 
And  the  slow  night  whirls  in  snow  over  towers  of 

dreamers, 
And  whiteness  hushes  the  town. 


[60] 


PART  III 

i 

As  evening  falls, 

And  the  yellow  lights  leap  one  by  one 

Along  high  walls; 

And  along  black  streets  that  glisten  as  if  with  rain, 

The  muted  city  seems 

Like  one  in  a  restless  sleep,  who  lies  and  dreams 

Of  vague  desires,  and  memories,  and  half -forgotten 

pain  .   .  . 

Along  dark  veins,  like  lights  the  quick  dreams  run, 
Flash,  are  extinguished,  flash  again, 
To  mingle  and  glow  at  last  in  the  enormous  brain 
And  die  away  .    .   . 
As  evening  falls, 

A  dream  dissolves  these  insubstantial  walls, — 
A  myriad  secretly  gliding  lights  lie  bare  .    .   . 
The  lovers  rise,  the  harlot  combs  her  hair, 
The  dead  man's  face  grows  blue  in  the  dizzy  lamplight, 
The  watchman  climbs  the  stair  .    .    . 
The  bank  defaulter  leers  at  a  chaos  of  figures, 

[61] 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  runs  among  them,  and  is  beaten  down; 

The  sick  man  coughs  and  hears  the  chisels  ringing; 

The  tired  clown 

Sees  the  enormous  crowd,  a  million  faces, 

Motionless  in  their  places, 

Ready  to  laugh,  and  seize,  and  crush  and  tear   .    .    . 

The  dancer  smooths  her  hair, 

Laces  her  golden  slippers,  and  runs  through  the  door 

To  dance  once  more, 

Hearing  swift  music  like  an  enchantment  rise, 

Feeling  the  praise  of  a  thousand  eyes. 

As  darkness  falls 

The  walls  grow  luminous  and  warm,  the  walls 

Tremble  and  glow  with  the  lives  within  them  moving, 

Moving  like  music,  secret  and  rich  and  warm. 

How  shall  we  live  tonight?     Where  shall  we  turn? 

To  what  new  light  or  darkness  yearn? 

A  thousand  winding  stairs  lead  down  before  us ; 

And  one  by  one  in  myriads  we  descend 

By  lamplit  flowered  walls,  long  balustrades, 

Through  half -lit  halls  which  reach  no  end. 


The  House  of  Dust 

ii. 

You  read — what  is  it,  then  that  are  you  reading? 
What  music  moves  so  silently  in  your  mind? 
Your  bright  hand  turns  the  page. 
I  watch  you  from  my  window,  unsuspected: 
You  move  in  an  alien  land,  a  silent  age  .   .   . 

.    .    .    The  poet — what  was  his  name — ?     Tokkei — 

Tokkei — 

The  poet  walked  alone  in  a  cold  late  rain, 
And  thought  his  grief  was  like  the  crying  of  sea-birds ; 
For  his  lover  was  dead,  he  never  would  love  again. 

Rain  in  the  dreams  of  the  mind — rain  forever — 
Rain  in  the  sky  of  the  heart — rain  in  the  willows — 
But  then  he  saw  this  face,  this  face  like  flame, 
This  quiet  lady,  this  portrait  by  Hiroshigi; 
And  took  it  home  with  him ;  and  with  it  came 

What  unexpected  changes,  subtle  as  weather ! 
The  dark  room,  cold  as  rain, 

Grew  faintly  fragrant,  stirred  with  a  stir  of  April, 
Warmed  its  corners  with  light  again, 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  smoke  of  incense  whirled  about  this  portrait, 
And  the  quiet  lady  there, 

So  young,  so  quietly  smiling,  with  calm  hands, 
Seemed  ready  to  loose  her  hair, 

And  smile,  and  lean  from  the  picture,  or  say  one  word, 
The  word  already  clear, 

Which  seemed  to  rise  like  light  between  her  eyelids  .  . 
He  held  his  breath  to  hear, 

And  smiled  for  shame,  and  drank  a  cup  of  wine, 
And  held  a  candle,  and  searched  her  face 
Through  all  the  little  shadows,  to  see  what  secret 
Might  give  so  warm  a  grace  .   .   . 

Was  it  the  quiet  mouth,  restrained  a  little  ? 

The  eyes,  half -turned  aside? 

The  jade  ring  on  her  wrist,  still  almost  swinging?  .  .  . 

The  secret  was  denied, 

He  chose  his  favorite  pen  and  drew  these  verses, 
And  slept;  and  as  he  slept 
A  dream  came  into  his  heart,  his  lover  entered, 
And  chided  him,  and  wept. 

[64] 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  in  the  morning,  waking,  he  remembered, 
And  thought  the  dream  was  strange. 
Why  did  his  darkened  lover  rise  from  the  garden? 
He  turned,  and  felt  a  change, 

As  if  a  someone  hidden  smiled  and  watched  him  .   .   . 
Yet  there  was  only  sunlight  there. 
Until  he  saw  those  young  eyes,  quietly  smiling, 
And  held  his  breath  to  stare, 

And    could    have    sworn    her    cheek    had    turned — a 

little  .   .   . 

Had  slightly  turned  away  .   .   . 

Sunlight  dozed  on  the  floor  .  .  .  He  sat  and  wondered, 
Nor  left  his  room  that  day. 

And  that  day,  and  for  many  days  thereafter, 

He  sat  alone,  and  thought 

No  lady  had  ever  lived  so  beautiful 

As  Hiroshigi  wrought  .   .   . 

Or  if  she  lived,  no  matter  in  what  country, 

By  what  far  river  or  hill  or  lonely  sea, 

He  would  look  in  every  face  until  he  found  her  .   .    . 

There  was  no  other  as  fair  as  she. 

[65] 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  before  her  quiet  face  he  burned  soft  incense, 
And  brought  her  every  day 

Boughs  of  the  peach,  or  almond,  or  snow-white  cherry, 
And  somehow,  she  seemed  to  say, 

That  silent  lady,  young,  and  quietly  smiling, 
That  she  was  happy  there; 

And  sometimes,  seeing  this,  he  started  to  tremble, 
And  desired  to  touch  her  hair, 

To  lay  his  palm  along  her  hand,  touch  faintly 
With  delicate  finger- tips 

The  ghostly  smile  that  seemed  to  hover  and  vanish 
Upon  her  lips  .  .  . 

Until  he  knew  he  loved  this  quiet  lady ; 

And  night  by  night  a  dread 

Leered  at  his  dreams,  for  he  knew  that  Hiroshigi 

Was  many  centuries  dead, — 

And  the  lady,  too,  was  dead,  and  all  who  knew  her  .  . 
Dead,  and  long  turned  to  dust  .   .   . 
The  thin  moon  waxed  and  waned,  and  left  him  paler, 
The  peach  leaves  flew  in  a  gust, 

[66] 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  he  would  surely  have  died;  but  there  one  day 
A  wise  man,  white  with  age, 
Stared  at  the  portrait,  and  said,  'This  Hiroshigi 
Knew  more  than  archimage, — 

Cunningly  drew  the  body,  and  called  the  spirit, 
Till  partly  it  entered  there  .   .   . 

Sometimes,  at  death,  it  entered  the  portrait  wholly  .   . 
Do  all  I  say  with  care, 

And  she  you  love  may  come  to  you  when  you  call 

her  .   .   .  ' 

So  then  this  ghost,  Tokkei, 

Ran  in  the  sun,  bought  wine  of  a  hundred  merchants, 
And  alone  at  the  end  of  day 

Entered  the  darkening  room,  and  faced  the  portrait, 
And  saw  the  quiet  eyes 

Gleaming  and  young  in  the  dusk,  and  held  the  wine- 
cup, 
And  knelt,  and  did  not  rise, 

And  said,  aloud,  'Lo-san,  will  you  drink  this  wine?' 
Said  it  three  times  aloud. 

And  at  the  third  the  faint  blue  smoke  of  incense 
Rose  to  the  walls  in  a  cloud, 

[67] 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  the  lips  moved  faintly,  and  the  eyes,  and  the  calm 

hands  stirred; 
And  suddenly,  with  a  sigh, 

The  quiet  lady  came  slowly  down  from  the  portrait, 
And  stood,  while  worlds  went  by, 

And  lifted  her  young  white  hands  and  took  the  wine 

cup; 

And  the  poet  trembled,  and  said, 
'Lo-san,  will  you  stay  forever?' — 'Yes,  I  will  stay/ — 
'But  what  when  I  am  dead?' 

'When  you  are  dead  your  spirit  will  find  my  spirit, 
And  then  we  shall  die  no  more/ 

Music  came  down  upon  them,  and  spring  returning, 
They  remembered  worlds  before, 

And  years  went  over  the  earth,  and  over  the  sea, 
And  lovers  were  born  and  spoke  and  died, 
But  forever  in  sunlight  went  these  two  immortal, 
Tokkei  and  the  quiet  bride  .    .    . 


[68] 


The  House  of  Dust 

in. 

The  lamplit  page  is  turned,  the  dream  forgotten; 
The  music  changes  tone,  you  wake,  remember 
Deep  worlds  you  lived  before, — deep  worlds  hereafter 
Of  leaf  on  falling  leaf,  music  on  music, 
Rain  and  sorrow  and  wind  and  dust  and  laughter. 

Helen  was  late  and  Miriam  came  too  soon. 
Joseph  was  dead,  his  wife  and  children  starving. 
Elaine  was  married  and  soon  to  have  a  child. 
You  dreamed  last  night  of  fiddler-crabs  with  fiddles; 
They  played  a  buzzing  melody,  and  you  smiled. 

To-morrow — what?     And  what  of  yesterday? 
Through  soundless  labyrinths  of  dream  you  pass, 
Through  many  doors  to  the  one  door  of  all. 
Soon  as  it's  opened  we  shall  hear  a  music: 
Or  see  a  skeleton  fall  .   .   . 

We  walk  with  you.     Where  is  it  that  you  lead  us  ? 
We  climb  the  muffled  stairs  beneath  high  lanterns. 
We  descend  again.     We  grope  through  darkened  cells. 
You  say :  this  darkness,  here,  will  slowly  kill  me. 
It  creeps  and  weighs  upon  me  ...  Is  full  of  bells. 

[69] 


The  House  of  Dust 

This  is  the  thing  remembered  I  would  forget — 
No  matter  where  I  go,  how  soft  I  tread, 
This  windy  gesture  menaces  me  with  death. 
Fatigue!  it  says,  and  points  its  finger  at  me; 
Touches  my  throat  and  stops  my  breath. 

My  fans — my  jewels — the  portrait  of  my  husband — 
The  torn  certificate  for  my  daughter's  grave — 
These  are  but  mortal  seconds  in  immortal  time. 
They  brush  me,  fade  away :  like  drops  of  water. 
They  signify  no  crime. 

Let  us  retrace  our  steps :  I  have  deceived  you  : 
Nothing  is  here  I  could  not  frankly  tell  you : 
No  hint  of  guilt,  or  faithlessness,  or  threat. 
Dreams — they  are  madness.     Staring  eyes — illusion. 
Let  us  return,  hear  music,  and  forget  .   .   . 

IV. 

Of  what  she  said  to  me  that  night — no  matter. 

The  strange  thing  came  next  day. 

My  brain  was  full  of  music — something  she  played 

me — ; 

I  couldn't  remember  it  all,  but  phrases  of  it 
Wreathed  and  wreathed  among  faint  memories, 

[70] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Seeking  for  something,  trying  to  tell  me  something, 

Urging  to  restlessness :  verging  on  grief. 

I  tried  to  play  the  tune,  from  memory, — 

But  memory  failed:  the  chords  and  discords  climbed 

And  found  no  resolution — only  hung  there, 

And  left  me  morbid  .    .    .  Where,  then,  had  I  heard 

it?  ... 

What  secret  dusty  chamber  was  it  hinting? 
'Dust',  it  said,  'dust  .  .  .  and  dust  .  .  .  and  sunlight  .  . 
A  cold  clear  April  evening  .    .    .  snow,  bedraggled, 
Rain-worn  snow,  dappling  the  hideous  grass  .    .    . 
And  someone  walking  alone ;  and  someone  saying 
That  all  must  end,  for  the  time  had  come  to  go  .   .   .  ' 
These  were  the  phrases  .  .   .  but  behind,  beneath  them 
A  greater  shadow  moved:  and  in  this  shadow 
I  stood  and  guessed  .    .    .  Was  it  the  blue-eyed  lady? 
The  one  who  always  danced  in  golden  slippers — 
And  had  I  danced  with  her, — upon  this  music? 
Or  was  it  further  back — the  unplumbed  twilight 
Of  childhood? — No — much  recenter  than  that. 

You  know,  without  my  telling  you,  how  sometimes 
A  word  or  name  eludes  you,  and  you  seek  it 
Through  running  ghosts  of  shadow, — leaping  at  it, 


The  House  of  Dust 

Lying  in  wait  for  it  to  spring  upon  it, 
Spreading  faint  snares  for  it  of  sense  or  sound: 
Until,  of  a  sudden,  as  if  in  a  phantom  forest, 
You  hear  it,  see  it  flash  among  the  branches, 
And  scarcely  knowing  how,  suddenly  have  it — 
Well,  it  was  so  I  followed  down  this  music, 
Glimpsing  a  face  in  darkness,  hearing  a  cry, 
Remembering  days  forgotten,  moods  exhausted, 
Corners  in  sunlight,  puddles  reflecting  stars — ; 
Until,  of  a  sudden,  and  least  of  all  suspected, 
The  thing  resolved  itself :  and  I  remembered 
An  April  afternoon,  eight  years  ago — 
Or  was  it  nine? — no  matter — call  it  nine — 
A  room  in  which  the  last  of  sunlight  faded ; 
A  vase  of  violets,  fragrance  in  white  curtains ; 
And,  she  who  played  the  same  thing  later,  playing. 

She  played  this  tune.     And  in  the  middle  of  it 
Abruptly  broke  it  off,  letting  her  hands 
Fall  in  her  lap.     She  sat  there  so  a  moment, 
With  shoulders  drooped,  then  lifted  up  a  rose, 
One  great  white  rose,  wide  opened  like  a  lotos, 
And  pressed  it  to  her  cheek,  and  closed  her  eyes. 

[72] 


The  House  of  Dust 

'You   know — we've    got   to    end   this — Miriam   loves 

you  .    .   . 

If  she  should  ever  know,  or  even  guess  it, — 
What  would  she  do? — Listen! — I'm  not  absurd  .    .    . 
I'm  sure  of  it.     If  you  had  eyes,  for  women — 
To  understand  them — which  you've  never  had — 
You'd  know  it  too  .   .   .  '     So  went  this  colloquy, 
Half  humorous,  with  undertones  of  pathos, 
Half  grave,  half  flippant  .   .   .  while  her  fingers,  softly, 
Felt  for  this  tune,  played  it  and  let  it  fall, 
Now  note  by  singing  note,  now  chord  by  chord, 
Repeating  phrases  with  a  kind  of  pleasure  .  -.    . 
Was  it  symbolic  of  the  woman's  weakness 
That  she  could  neither  break  it — nor  conclude? 
It  paused   .    .    .   and  wandered   .    .    .   paused  again; 

while  she, 

Perplexed  and  tired,  half  told  me  I  must  go,— 
Half  asked  me  if  I  thought  I  ought  to  go  .   .   . 

Well,  April  passed  with  many  other  evenings, 
Evenings  like  this,  with  later  suns  and  warmer, 
With  violets  always  there,  and  fragrant  curtains  .    .   . 
And  she  was  right :  and  Miriam  found  it  out  .    .    . 
And  after  that,  when  eight  deep  years  had  passed — 

[73] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Or  nine — we  met  once  more, — by  accident  .  .  . 
But  was  it  just  by  accident,  I  wonder, 
She    played    this    tune? — Or    what,    then,    was    in 
tended?  . 


v. 

The  cigarette-smoke  loops  and  slides  above  us, 
Dipping  and  swirling  as  the  waiter  passes ; 
You  strike  a  match  and  stare  upon  the  flame. 
The  tiny  fire  leaps  in  your  eyes  a  moment, 
And  dwindles  away  as  silently  as  it  came. 

This  melody,  you  say,  has  certain  voices — 
They  rise  like  nereids  from  a  river,  singing, 
Lift  white  faces,  and  dive  to  darkness  again. 
Wherever  you  go  you  bear  this  river  with  you : 
A  leaf  falls, — and  it  flows,  and  you  have  pain. 

So  says  the  tune  to  you — but  what  to  me? 
What  to  the  waiter,  as  he  pours  your  coffee, 
The  violinist  who  suavely  draws  his  bow? 
That  man,  who  folds  his  paper,  overhears  it. 
A  thousand  dreams  revolve  and  fall  and  flow. 

[74] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Some  one  there  is  who  sees  a  virgin  stepping 

Down  marble  stairs  to  a  deep  tomb  of  roses : 

At  the  last  moment  she  lifts  remembering  eyes. 

Green  leaves  blow  down.  The  place  is  checked  with 
shadows. 

A  long-drawn  murmer  of  rain  goes  down  the  skies. 

And  oaks  are  stripped  and  bare,  and  smoke  with  light 
ning: 

And  clouds  are  blown  and  torn  upon  high  forests, 

And  the  great  sea  shakes  its  walls. 

And  then  falls  silence  .  .  .  And  through  long  silence 
falls 

This  melody  once  more: 

'Down  endless  stairs  she  goes,  as  once  before/ 

So  says  the  tune  to  him — but  what  to  me? 
What  are  the  worlds  I  see? 
What  shapes  fantastic,  terrible  dreams?  .   .   . 
I  go  my  secret  way,  down  secret  alleys ; 
My  errand  is  not  so  simple  as  it  seems. 


[75] 


The  House  of  Dust 
\ 

VI. 

This  is  the  house.     On  one  side  there  is  darkness, 

On  one  side  there  is  light. 

Into  the  darkness  you  may  lift  your  lanterns — 

O,  any  number — it  will  still  be  night. 

And  here  are  echoing  stairs  to  lead  you  downward 

To  long  sonorous  halls. 

And  here  is  spring  forever  at  these  windows, 

With  roses  on  the  walls. 

This  is  her  room.     On  one  side  there  is  music — 

On  one  side  not  a  sound. 

At  one  step  she  could  move  from  love  to  silence, 

Feel  myriad  darkness  coiling  round. 

And  here  are  balconies  from  which  she  heard  you, 

Your  steady  footsteps  on  the  stair. 

And  here  the  glass  in  which  she  saw  your  shadow 

As  she  unbound  her  hair. 

Here  is  the  room — with  ghostly  walls  dissolving — 
The  twilight  room  in  which  she  called  you  'lover' ; 
And  the  floorless  room  in  which  she  called  you  'friend/ 
So  many  times,  in  doubt,  she  ran  between  them ! — 
Through  windy  corridors  of  darkening  end. 

[76] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Here  she  could  stand  with  one  dim  light  above  her 
And  hear  far  music,  like  a  sea  in  caverns, 
Murmur  away  at  hollowed  walls  of  stone. 
And  here,  in  a  roofless  room  where  it  was  raining, 
She  bore  the  patient  sorrow  of  rain  alone. 

Your  words  were  walls  which  suddenly  froze  around 
her. 

Your  words  were  windows, — large  enough  for  moon 
light, 

Too  small  to  let  her  through. 

Your  letters — fragrant  cloisters  faint  with  music. 

The  music  that  assuaged  her  there  was  you. 

How  many  times  she  heard  your  step  ascending 

Yet  never  saw  your  face ! 

She  heard  them  turn  again,  ring  slowly  fainter, 

Till  silence  swept  the  place. 

Why  had  you  gone?  .  .  .  The  door,  perhaps,  mis 
taken  .  .  . 

You  would  go  elsewhere.  The  deep  walls  were 
shaken. 

[77] 


The  House  of  Dust 

A  certain  rose-leaf — sent  without  intention — 
Became,  with  time,  a  woven  web  of  fire — 
She  wore  it,  and  was  warm. 
A  certain  hurried  glance,  let  fall  at  parting, 
Became,  with  time,  the  flashings  of  a  storm. 

Yet,  there  was  nothing  asked,  no  hint  to  tell  you 
Of  secret  idols  carved  in  secret  chambers 
From  all  you  did  and  said. 
Nothing  was  done,  until  at  last  she  knew  you. 
Nothing  was  known,  till,  somehow,  she  was  dead. 

How  did  she  die? — You  say,  she  died  of  poison. 
Simple  and  swift.  And  much  to  be  regretted. 
You  did  not  see  her  pass 

So  many  thousand  times  from  light  to  darkness, 
Pausing  so  many  times  before  her  glass; 

You  did  not  see  how  many  times  she  hurried 
To  lean  from  certain  windows,  vainly  hoping, 
Passionate  still  for  beauty,  remembered  spring. 
You  did  not  know  how  long  she  clung  to  music, 
You  did  not  hear  her  sing. 

[78] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Did  she,  then,  make  the  choice,  and  step  out  bravely 
From  sound  to  silence — close,  herself,  those  windows? 
Or  was  it  true,  instead, 
That  darkness  moved, — for  once, — and  so  possessed 

her?  .   .   . 
We'll  never  know,  you  say,  for  she  is  dead. 


VII. 

You  see  that  porcelain  ranged  there  in  the  window — 

Platters  and  soup-plates  done  with  pale  pink  rosebuds, 

And  tiny  violets,  and  wreaths  of  ivy? 

See  how  the  pattern  clings  to  the  gleaming  edges ! 

They're  works  of  art — minutely  seen  and  felt, 

Each  petal  done  devoutly.     Is  it  failure 

To  spend  your  blood  like  this? 

Study  them  .    .    .  you  will  see  there,  in  the  porcelain, 
If  you  stare  hard  enough,  a  sort  of  swimming 
Of  lights  and  shadows,  ghosts  within  a  crystal — 
My  brain  unfolding !     There  you'll  see  me  sitting 
Day  after  day,  close  to  a  certain  window, 
Looking  down,  sometimes,  to  see  the  people  .  .  . 

[79] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Sometimes  my  wife  comes  there  to  speak  to  me  .   .   . 

Sometimes  the  grey  cat  waves  his  tail  around  me  ... 

Goldfish  swim  in  a  bowl,  glisten  in  sunlight, 

Dilate  to  a  gorgeous  size,  blow  delicate  bubbles, 

Drowse  among  dark  green  weeds.     On  rainy  days, 

You'll  see  a  gas-light  shedding  light  behind  me — 

An  eye-shade  round  my  forehead.     There  I  sit, 

Twirling  the  tiny  brushes  in  my  paint-cups, 

Painting  the  pale  pink  rosebuds,  minute  violets, 

Exquisite  wreaths  of  dark  green  ivy  leaves. 

On  this  leaf,  goes  a  dream  I  dreamed  last  night 

Of  two  soft-patterned  toads — I  thought  them  stones, 

Until  they  hopped!     And  then  a  great  black  spider, — 

Tarantula,  perhaps,  a  hideous  thing, — 

It  crossed  the  room  in  one  tremendous  leap. 

Here, — as  I  coil  the  stems  between  two  leaves, — 

It  is  as  if,  dwindling  to  atomy  size, 

I  cried  the  secret  between  two  universes  .    .    . 

A  friend  of  mine  took  hasheesh  once,  and  said 

Just  as  he  fell  asleep  he  had  a  dream, — 

Though  with  his  eyes  wide  open, — 

And  felt,  or  saw,  or  knew  himself  a  part 

Of  marvelous  slowly- wreathing  intricate  patterns, 

Plane  upon  plane,  depth  upon  coiling  depth, 

[go] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Amazing  leaves,  folding  one  on  another, 

Voluted  grasses,  twists  and  curves  and  spirals — 

All  of  it  darkly  moving  ...  as  for  me, 

I  need  no  hasheesh  for  it — it's  too  easy! 

Soon  as  I  shut  my  eyes  I  set  out  walking 

In    a    monstrous    jungle    of    monstrous    pale    pink 

roseleaves, 

Violets  purple  as  death,  dripping  with  water, 
And  ivy-leaves  as  big  as  clouds  above  me. 

Here,  in  a  simple  pattern  of  separate  violets — 
With  scalloped  edges  gilded — here  you  have  me 
Thinking  of  something  else.     My  wife,  you  know, — 
There's  something  lacking — force,  or  will,  or  passion, 
I  don't  know  what  it  is — and  so,  sometimes, 
When  I  am  tired,  or  haven't  slept  three  nights, 
Or  it  is  cloudy,  with  low  threat  of  rain, 
I  get  uneasy — just  like  poplar  trees 
Ruffling  their  leaves — and  I  begin  to  think 
Of  poor  Pauline,  so  many  years  ago, 
And  that  delicious  night.    Where  is  she  now? 
I  meant  to  write — but  she  has  moved,  by  this  time, 
And  then,  besides,  she  might  find  out  I'm  married. 
Well,  there  is  more — I'm  getting  old  and  timid— 

[81] 


The  House  of  Dust 

The  years  have  gnawed  my  will.     I've  lost  my  nerve! 
I  never  strike  out  boldly  as  I  used  to — 
But  sit  here,  painting  violets,  and  remember 
That  thrilling  night.     Photographers,  she  said, 
Asked  her  to  pose  for  them ;  her  eyes  and  forehead, — 
Dark  brown  eyes,  and  a  smooth  and  pallid  forehead, — 
Were  thought  so  beautiful. — And  so  they  were. 
Pauline    .     .     .      These   violets    are    like    words    re 
membered  .   .   . 
Darling!  she  whispered  .   .   .  Darling!  .   .   .  Darling! 

.    .    .  Darling! 

Well,  I  suppose  such  days  can  come  but  once. 
Lord,  how  happy  we  were !  .   .   . 

Here,  if  you  only  knew  it,  is  a  story — 

Here,  in  these  leaves.     I  stopped  my  work  to  tell  it, 

And  then,  when  I  had  finished,  went  on  thinking: 

A  man  I  saw  on  a  train  ...     I  was  still  a  boy  .   .   . 

Who  killed  himself  by  diving  against  a  wall. 

Here  is  a  recollection  of  my  wife, 

When  she  was  still  my  sweetheart,  years  ago. 

It's     funny    how    things    change, — just    change,    by 

growing, 
Without  an  effort  .  .  .    And  here  are  trivial  things, — 

[82] 


The  House  of  Dust 

A  chill,  an  errand  forgotten,  a  cut  while  shaving; 
A  friend  of  mine  who  tells  me  he  is  married  .   .   . 
Or  is  that  last  so  trivial  ?     Well,  no  matter ! 

This  is  the  sort  of  thing  you'll  see  of  me, 

If  you  look  hard  enough.    This,  in  its  way, 

Is  a  kind  of  fame.    My  life  arranged  before  you 

In  scrolls  of  leaves,  rosebuds,  violets,  ivy, 

Clustered  or  wreathed  on  plate  and  cup  and  platter  . 

Sometimes,  I  say,  I'm  just  like  John  the  Baptist — 

You  have  my  head  before  you  .  .  .  on  a  platter. 


VIII. 

Wind  blows.    Snow  falls.    The  great  clock  in  its  tower 
Ticks  with  reverberant  coil  and  tolls  the  hour: 
At  the  deep  sudden  stroke  the  pigeons  fly  ... 
The  fine  snow  flutes  the  cracks  between  the  flagstones. 
We  close  our  coats,  and  hurry,  and  search  the  sky. 

We  are  like  music,  each  voice  of  it  pursuing 
A  golden  separate  dream,  remote,  persistent, 
Climbing  to  fire,  receding  to  hoarse  despair. 


The  House  of  Dust 

What  do  you  whisper,  brother?     What  do  you  tell 

me?  .    .    . 
We  pass  each  other,  are  lost,  and  do  not  care. 


One  mounts  up  to  beauty,  serenely  singing, 
Forgetful  of  the  steps  that  cry  behind  him; 
One  drifts  slowly  down  from  a  waking  dream. 
One,  foreseeing,  lingers  forever  unmoving  .    .    . 

Upward  and  downward,  past  him  there,  we  stream. 

§• 

One  has  death  in  his  eyes:  and  walks  more  slowly. 
Death,  among  jonquils,  told  him  a  freezing  secret. 
A  cloud  blows  over  his  eyes,  he  ponders  earth. 
He  sees  in  the  world  a  forest  of  sunlit  jonquils : 
A  slow  black  poison  huddles  beneath  that  mirth. 


Death,  from  street  to  alley,  from  door  to  window, 
Cries  out  his  news, — of  unplumbed  worlds  approaching, 
Of  a  cloud  of  darkness  soon  to  destroy  the  tower. 
But    why    comes    death, — he    asks, — in    a    world    so 

perfect? 
Or  why  the  minute's  grey  in  the  golden  hour? 

[84] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Music,  a  sudden  glissando,  sinister,  troubled, 

A  drift  of  wind-torn  petals,  before  him  passes 

Down  jangled  streets,  and  dies. 

The  bodies  of  old  and  young,  of  maimed  and  lovely, 

Are  slowly  borne  to  earth,  with  a  dirge  of  cries. 

Down    cobbled    streets    they    come;    down    huddled 

stairways ; 

Through  silent  halls ;  through  carven  golden  doorways  ; 
From  freezing  rooms  as  bare  as  rock.    % 
The  curtains  are  closed  across  deserted  windows. 
Earth  streams  out  of  the  shovel ;  the  pebbles  knock. 

Mary,  whose  hands  rejoiced  to  move  in  sunlight; 
Silent  Elaine;  grave  Anne,  who  sang  so  clearly; 
Fugitive  Helen,  who  loved  and  walked  alone; 
Miriam  too  soon  dead,  darkly  remembered; 
Childless  Ruth,  who  sorrowed,  but  could  not  atone; 

Jean,  whose  laughter  flashed  over  depths  of  terror, 
And  Eloise,  who  desired  to  love  but  dared  not  ; 
Doris,  who  turned  alone  to  the  dark  and  cried, — 
They  are  blown  away  like  windflung  chords  of  music, 
They  drift  away;  the  sudden  music  has  died. 

[85] 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  one,  with  death  in  his  eyes,  comes  walking  slowly 
And  sees  the  shadow  of  death  in  many  faces, 
And  thinks  the  world  is  strange. 
He  desires  immortal  music  and  spring  forever, 
And  beauty  that  knows  no  change. 


IX. 

We  sit  together  and  talk,  or  smoke  in  silence. 
You  say  (but  use  no  words)  'this  night  is  passing 
As  other  nights  when  we  are  dead  will  pass  .    .    .' 
Perhaps  I  misconstrue  you:  you  mean  only, 
'How  deathly  pale  my  face  looks  in  that  glass  .    .    .' 

You  say:  'We  sit  and  talk,  of  things  important  .    .    . 
How  many  others  like  ourselves,  this  instant, 
Mark  the  pendulum  swinging  against  the  wall? 
How  many  others,  laughing,  sip  their  coffee — 
Or  stare  at  mirrors,  and  do  not  talk  at  all?  .    .   . 

'This  is  the  moment'   (so  you  would  say,  in  silence) 
When  suddenly  we  have  had  too  much  of  laughter : 

[86] 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  a  freezing  stillness  falls,  no  word  to  say. 

Our  mouths  feel  foolish  .  .  .  For  all  the  days  here 
after 

What  have  we  saved — what  news,  what  tune,  what 
play? 

'We  see  each  other  as  vain  and  futile  tricksters, — 

Posturing  like  bald  apes  before  a  mirror; 

No  pity  dims  our  eyes  .    .    . 

How  many  others,  like  ourselves,  this  instant, 

See  how  the  great  world  wizens,  and  are  wise?  .   .   .' 

Well,  you  are  right  ...     No  doubt,  they  fall,  these 

seconds  .   .   . 

When  suddenly  all's  distempered,  vacuous,  ugly, 
And  even  those  most  like  angels  creep  for  schemes. 
The  one  you  love  leans  forward,  smiles,  deceives  you, 
Opens  a  door  through  which  you  see  dark  dreams. 

But  this  is  momentary  ...  or  else,  enduring, 

Leads  you  with  devious  eyes  through  mists  and  poisons 

To  horrible  chaos,  or  suicide,  or  crime  .   .   . 

And  all  these  others  who  at  your  conjuration 

Grow  pale,  feeling  the  skeleton  touch  of  time, — 

[87] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Or,  laughing  sadly,  talk  of  things  important, 

Or  stare  at  mirrors,  startled  to  see  their  faces, 

Or  drown  in  the  waveless  vacuum  of  their  days, — 

Suddenly,  as  from  sleep,  awake,  forgetting 

This  nauseous  dream ;  take  up  their  accustomed  ways, 

Exhume  the  ghost  of  a  joke,  renew  loud  laughter, 
Forget  the  moles  above  their  sweethearts'  eyebrows, 
Lean  to  the  music,  rise, 

And  dance  once  more  in  a  rose-festooned  illusion 
With  kindness  in  their  eyes  .   .   . 

They  say  (as  we  ourselves  have  said,  remember) 
'What  wizardry  this  slow  waltz  works  upon  us! 
And  how  it  brings  to  mind  forgotten  things !' 
They  say  'How  strange  it  is  that  one  such  evening 
Can  wake  vague  memories  of  so  many  springs !' 

And  so  they  go  ...     In  a  thousand  crowded  places, 
They  sit  to  smile  and  talk,  or  rise  to  ragtime, 
And,  for  their  pleasures,  agree  or  disagree. 
With  secret  symbols  they  play  on  secret  passions. 
With  cunning  eyes  they  see 

[88] 


The  House  of  Dust 

The  innocent  word  that  sets  remembrance  trembling, 
The  dubious  word  that  sets  the  scared  heart  beating  .  .  . 
The  pendulum  on  the  wall 
Shakes  down  seconds  .    .    .  They  laugh  at  time, 

dissembling ; 
Or  coil  for  a  victim  and  do  not  talk  at  all. 


x. 

From  time  to  time,  lifting  his  eyes,  he  sees 
The  soft  blue  starlight  through  the  one  small  window, 
The  moon  above  black  trees,  and  clouds,  and  Venus, — 
And  turns  to  write   .    .    .      The  clock,  behind  ticks 

softly. 

It  is  so  long,  indeed,  since  I  have  written, — 
Two  years,  almost,  your  last  is  turning  yellow, — 
That  these  first  words  I  write  seem  cold  and  strange. 
Are  you  the  man  I  knew,  or  have  you  altered? 
Altered,  of  course — just  as  I  too  have  altered — 
And  whether  towards  each  other,  or  more  apart, 
We  cannot  say  .   .   .     I've  just  re-read  your  letter — 
Not  through  forgetfulness,  but  more  for  pleasure — 

[89] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Pondering  much  on  all  you  say  in  it 

Of  mystic   consciousness — divine  conversion — 

The  sense  of  oneness  with  the  infinite, — 

Faith  in  the  world,  its  beauty,  and  its  purpose  .    .    . 

Well,  you  believe  one  must  have  faith,  in  some  sort, 

If  one's  to  walk  through  this  dark  world  contented. 

But  is  the  world  so  dark?    Or  is  it  rather 

Our  own  brute  minds, — in  which  we  hurry,  trembling, 

Through  streets  as  yet  unlighted?     This,  I  think. 


You  have  been  always,  let  me  say,  "romantic," — 
Eager  for  color,  for  beauty,  soon  discontented 
With  a  world  of  dust  and  stones  and  flesh  too  ailing: 
Even  before  the  question  grew  to  problem 
And  drove  you  bickering  into  metaphysics, 
You  met  on  lower  planes  the  same  great  dragon, 
Seeking  release,  some  fleeting  satisfaction, 
In  strange  aesthetics  .   .   .     You  tried,  as  I  remember, 
One  after  one,  strange  cults,  and  some,  too,  morbid, 
The  cruder  first,  more  violent  sensations, 
Gorgeously  carnal  things,  conceived  and  acted 
With  splendid  animal  thirst  .   .   .     Then,  by  degrees,— 
Savoring  all  more  delicate  gradations 

[90] 


The  House  of  Dust 

In  all  that  hue  and  tone  may  play  on  flesh, 
Or  thought  on  brain, — you  passed,  if  I  may  say  so, 
From  red  and  scarlet  through  morbid  greens  to  mauve. 
Let  us  regard  ourselves,  you  used  to  say, 
As  instruments  of  music,  whereon  our  lives 
Will  play  as  we  desire :  and  let  us  yield 
These  subtle  bodies  and  subtler  brains  and  nerves 
To  all  experience  plays  .   .    .  And  so  you  went 
From  subtle  tune  to  subtler,  each  heard  once, 
Twice  or  thrice  at  the  most,  tiring  of  each ; 
And  closing  one  by  one  your  doors,  drew  in 
Slowly,  through  darkening  labyrinths  of  feeling, 
Towards  the  central  chamber  .  .  .    Which  now  you've 
reached. 

What,  then's,  the  secret  of  this  ultimate  chamber — 

Or  innermost,  rather?     If  I  see  it  clearly 

It  is  the  last,  and  cunningest,  resort 

Of  one  who  has  found  this  world  of  dust  and  flesh, — 

This  world  of  lamentations,  death,  injustice, 

Sickness,  humiliation,  slow  defeat, 

Bareness,  and  ugliness,  and  iteration, — 

Too  meaningless;  or,  if  it  has  a  meaning, 

Too  tiresomely  insistent  on  one  meaning: 


The  House  of  Dust 

Futility  .    .    .     This  world,  I  hear  you  saying, — 
With  lifted  chin,  and  arm  in  outflung  gesture, 
Coldly  imperious, — this  transient  world, 
What  has  it  then  to  give,  if  not  containing 
Deep  hints  of  nobler  worlds?    We  know  its  beauties, — 
Momentary  and  trivial  for  the  most  part, 
Perceived  through  flesh,  passing  like  flesh  away, — 
And  know  how  much  outweighed  they  are  by  darkness. 
We  are  like  searchers  in  a  house  of  darkness, 
A  house  of  dust;  we  creep  with  little  lanterns, 
Throwing  our  tremulous  arcs  of  light  at  random, 
Now  here,  now  there,  seeing  a  plane,  an  angle, 
An  edge,  a  curve,  a  wall,  a  broken  stairway 
Leading  to  who  knows  what;  but  never  seeing 
The  whole  at  once  .   .   .     We  grope  our  way  a  little, 
And  then  grow  tired.     No  matter  what  we  touch, 
Dust  is  the  answer — dust:  dust  everywhere. 
If  this  were  all — what  were  the  use,  you  ask? 
But  this  is  not:  for  why  should  we  be  seeking, 
Why  should  we  bring  this  need  to  seek  for  beauty, 
To  lift  our  minds,  if  there  were  only  dust? 
This  is  the  central  chamber  you  have  come  to : 
Turning  your  back  to  the  world,  until  you  came 

[92] 


The  House  of  Dust 

To  this  deep  room,  and  looked  through  rose-stained 

windows, 
And  saw  the  hues  of  the  world  so  sweetly  changed. 

Well,  in  a  measure,  so  only  do  we  all. 

I  am  not  sure  that  you  can  be  refuted. 

At  the  very  last  we  all  put  faith  in  something, — 

You  in  this  ghost  that  animates  your  world, 

This  ethical  ghost, — and  I,  you'll  say,  in  reason,— 

Or  sensuous  beauty, — or  in  my  secret  self  .    .    . 

Though  as  for  that  you  put  your  faith  in  these, 

As  much  as  I  do — and  then,  forsaking  reason, — 

Ascending,  you  would  say,  to  intuition, — 

You  predicate  this  ghost  of  yours,  as  well. 

Of  course,  you  might  have  argued, — and  you  should 

have, — 

That  no  such  deep  appearance  of  design 
Could  shape  our  world  without  entailing  purpose: 
For  can  design  exist  without  a  purpose? 
Without  conceiving  mind?  .   .   .     We  are  like  children 
Who  find,  upon  the  sands,  beside  a  sea, 
Strange  patterns  drawn, — circles,  arcs,  ellipses, 
Moulded  in  sand    .    .    .     Who  put  them  there,   we 

wonder  ? 

[93] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Did  someone  draw  them  here  before  we  came? 
Or  was  it  just  the  sea? — We  pore  upon  them, 
But  find  no  answer — only  suppositions. 
And  if  these  perfect  shapes  are  evidence 
Of  immanent  mind,  it  is  but  circumstantial: 
We  never  come  upon  him  at  his  work, 
He  never  troubles  us.    He  stands  aloof- 
Well,  if  he  stands  at  all:  is  not  concerned 
With  what  we  are  or  do.    You,  if  you  like, 
May  think  he  broods  upon  us,  loves  us,  hates  us, 
Conceives  some  purpose  of  us.     In  so  doing 
You  see,  without  much  reason,  will  in  law. 
I  am  content  to  say,  'this  world  is  ordered, 
Happily  so  for  us,  by  accident : 
We  go  our  ways  untroubled  save  by  laws 
Of  natural  things.'    Who  makes  the  more  assumption? 

If  we  were  wise — which  God  knows  we  are  not — 
(Notice  I  call  on  God!)  we'd  plumb  this  riddle 
Not  in  the  world  we  see,  but  in  ourselves. 
These  brains  of  ours — these  delicate  spinal  clusters — 
Have  limits :  why  not  learn  them,  learn  their  cravings? 
Which  of  the  two  minds,  yours  or  mine,  is  sound? 
Yours,  which  scorned  the  world  that  gave  it  freedom, 

[94] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Until  you  managed  to  see  that  world  as  omen, — 

Or  mine,  which  likes  the  world,  takes  all  for  granted, 

Sorrow  as  much  as  joy,  and  death  as  life? — 

You  lean  on  dreams,  and  take  more  credit  for  it. 

I  stand  alone  .  .  .    Well,  I  take  credit,  too. 

You  find  your  pleasure  in  being  at  one  with  all  things — 

Fusing  in  lambent  dream,  rising  and  falling 

As  all  things  rise  and  fall  ...     I  do  that  too — 

With  reservations.     I  find  more  varied  pleasure 

In  understanding:  and  so  find  beauty  even 

In  this  strange  dream  of  yours  you  call  the  truth. 

Well,  I  have  bored  you.    And  it's  growing  late. 

For  household  news — what  have  you  heard,  I  wonder? 

You  must    have  heard  that  Paul  was  dead,  by  this 

time — 

Of  spinal  cancer.    Nothing  could  be  done — 
We  found  it  out  too  late.    His  death  has  changed  me, 
Deflected  much  of  me  that  lived  as  he  lived, 
Saddened  me,   slowed  me   down.      Such   things   will 

happen, 

Life  is  composed  of  them;  and  it  seems  wisdom 
To  see  them  clearly,  meditate  upon  them, 
And  understand  what  things  flow  out  of  them. 

[95] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Otherwise,  all  goes  on  here  much  as  always. 

Why  won't  you  come  and  see  us,  in  the  spring, 

And  bring  old  times  with  you? — If  you  could  see  me 

Sitting  here  by  the  window,  watching  Venus 

Go  down  behind  my  neighbor's  poplar  branches, — 

Just  where  you  used  to  sit, — I'm  sure  you'd  come. 

This  year,  they  say,  the  springtime  will  be  early. 


XI. 

What  shall  we  talk  of?     Li  Po?     Hokusai? 
You  narrow  your  long  dark  eyes  to  fascinate  me ; 
You  smile  a  little.  .  .  .Outside,  the  night  goes  by. 
I  walk  alone  in  a  forest  of  ghostly  trees  .   .   . 
Your  pale  hands  rest  palm  downwards  on  your  knees. 

'These  lines — converging,  they  suggest  such  distance! 
The  soul  is  drawn  away,  beyond  horizons. 
Lured  out  to  what?     One  dares  not  think. 
Sometimes,  I  glimpse  these  infinite  perspectives 
In  intimate  talk  (with  such  as  you)  and  shrink  . 

'One  feels  so  petty ! — One  feels  such — emptiness  !— 
You  mimic  horror,  let  fall  your  lifted  hand, 
And  smile  at  me ;  with  brooding  tenderness  .   .   . 

[96] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Alone  on  darkened  waters  I  fall  and  rise ; 

Slow  waves  above  me  break,  faint  waves  of  cries. 

'And  then  these  colors  .  .  .  but  who  would  dare  describe 

them? 

This  faint  rose-coral  pink  .   .  this  green — pistachio  ? — 
So  insubstantial!     Like  the  dim  ghostly  things 
Two  lovers  find  in  love's  still-twilight  chambers  .    .    . 
Old  peacock- fans,  and  fragrant  silks,  and  rings  .    .   . 

'Rings,  let  us  say,  drawn  from  the  hapless  fingers 
Of  some  great  lady,  many  centuries  nameless, — 
Or  is  that  too  sepulchral? — dulled  with  dust; 
And  necklaces  that  crumble  if  you  touch  them; 
And  gold  brocades  that,  breathed  on,  fall  to  rust. 

'No — I  am  wrong  ...  it  is  not  these  I  sought  for — ! 
Why  did  they  come  to  mind?     You  understand  me — 
You  know  these  strange  vagaries  of  the  brain ! — ' 
—I  walk  alone  in  a  forest  of  ghostly  trees; 
Your  pale  hands  rest  palm  downwards  on  your  knees  ; 
These  strange  vagaries  of  yours  are  all  too  plain. 

[97] 


The  House  of  Dust 

'But  why  perplex  ourselves  with  tedious  problems 
Of  art  or  .   .   .  such  things?  .    .    .  while  we  sit  here, 

living, 

With  all  that's  in  our  secret  hearts  to  say ! — ' 
Hearts? — Your  pale  hand  softly  strokes  the  satin. 
You  play  deep  music — know  well  what  you  play. 
You  stroke  the  satin  with  thrilling  of  finger-tips, 
You  smile,  with  faintly  perfumed  lips, 
You  loose  your  thoughts  like  birds, 
Brushing  our  dreams  with  soft  and  shadowy  words  .  . 
We  know  your  words  are  foolish,  yet  here  we  stay, 
I  to  be  played  on,  you  to  play; 
We  know  our  words  are  foolish,  yet  sit  here  bound 
In  tremulous  webs  of  sound. 

'How  beautiful  is  intimate  talk  like  this! — 
It  is  as  if  we  dissolved  grey  walls  between  us, 
Stepped  through  the  solid  portals,  become  but  shad 
ows, 

To  hear  a  hidden  music  .   .   .  Our  own  vast  shadows 
Lean  to  a  giant  size  on  the  windy  walls, 
Or  dwindle  away;  we  hear  our  soft  footfalls 
Echo  forever  behind  us,  ghostly  clear, 
Music  sings  far  off,  flows  suddenly  near, 

[98] 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  dies  away  like  rain  .  .   . 

We  walk  through  subterranean  caves  again, — 

Vaguely  above  us  feeling 

A  shadowy  weight  of  frescos  on  the  ceiling, 

Strange  half -lit  things, 

Soundless     grotesques     with     writhing     claws     and 

wings  .  .  . 

And  here  a  beautiful  face  looks  down  upon  us; 
And  someone  hurries  before,  unseen,  and  sings  .    .    . 
Have  we  seen  all,  I  wonder,  in  these  chambers — 
Or  is  there  yet  some  gorgeous  vault,  arched  low, 
Where  sleeps  an  amazing  beauty  we  do  not  know  ?  .  .  ' 

The  question  falls :  we  walk  in  silence  together, 
Thinking  of  that  deep  vault  and  of  its  secret  .   .   . 
This  lamp,  these  books,  this  fire 
Are  suddenly  blown  away  in  a  whistling  darkness. 
Deep  walls  crash  down  in  the  whirlwind  of  desire. 


XII. 

Now,  when  the  moon  slid  under  the  cloud 
And  the  cold  clear  dark  of  starlight  fell, 
He  heard  in  his  blood  the  well-known  bell 

[99] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Tolling  slowly  in  heaves  of  sound, 
Slowly  beating,  slowly  beating, 
Shaking  its  pulse  on  the  stagnant  air: 
Sometimes  it  swung  completely  round, 
Horribly  gasping  as  if  for  breath; 
Falling  down  with  an  anguished  cry  .   .   . 
Now  the  red  bat,  he  mused,  will  fly  ; 
Something  is  marked,  this  night,  for  death  , 
And  while  he  mused,  along  his  blood 
Flew  ghostly  voices,  remote  and  thin, 
They  rose  in  the  cavern  of  his  brain, 
Like  ghosts  they  died  away  again; 
And  hands  upon  his  heart  were  laid, 
And  music  upon  his  flesh  was  played, 
Until,  as  he  was  bidden  to  do, 
He  walked  the  wood  he  so  well  knew. 
Through  the  cold  dew  he  moved  his  feet, 
And  heard  far  off,  as  under  the  earth, 
Discordant  music  in  shuddering  tones, 
Screams  of  laughter,  horrible  mirth, 
Clapping  of  hands,  and  thudding  of  drums, 
And  the  long-drawn  wail  of  one  in  pain. 
To-night,  he  thought,  I  shall  die  again, 

[100] 


The  House  of  Dust 

We  shall  die  again  in  the  red-eyed  fire 

To  meet  on  the  edge  of  the  wood  beyond 

With  the  placid  gaze  of  fed  desire  .   .   . 

He  walked ;  and  behind  the  whisper  of  trees, 

In  and  out,  one  walked  with  him : 

She  parted  the  branches  and  peered  at  him, 

Through  lowered  lids  her  two  eyes  burned, 

He  heard  her  breath,  he  saw  her  hand, 

Wherever  he  turned  his  way,  she  turned: 

Kept  pace  with  him,  now  fast,  now  slow; 

Moving  her  white  knees  as  he  moved  .   .   . 

This  is  the  one  I  have  always  loved  ; 

This  is  the  one  whose  bat-soul  comes 

To  dance  with  me,  flesh  to  flesh, 

In  the  starlight  dance  of  horns  and  drums  .   . 

The  walls  and  roofs,  the  scarlet  towers, 
Sank  down  behind  a  rushing  sky. 
He  heard  a  sweet  song  just  begun 
Abruptly  shatter  in  tones  and  die. 
It  whirled  away.     Cold  silence  fell. 
And  again  came  tollings  of  a  bell. 

*  *  *  *  * 

[101] 


The  House  of  Dust 


This  air  is  alive  with  witches :  the  white  witch  rides 
Swifter  than  smoke  on  the  starlit  wind. 
In  the  clear  darkness,  while  the  moon  hides, 
They  corne  like  dreams,  like  something  remembered  . 
Let  us  hurry !  beloved ;  take  my  hand, 
Forget  these  things  that  trouble  your  eyes, 
Forget,  forget!     Our  flesh  is  changed, 
Lighter  than  smoke  we  wreathe  and  rise  .    .    . 


The  cold  air  hisses  between  us  ...  Beloved,  beloved, 

What  was  the  word  you  said? 

Something    about    clear    music    that    sang    through 

water  .    .    . 
I  cannot  remember.     The  storm-drops  break  on  the 

leaves. 

Something  was  lost  in  the  darkness.     Someone  is  dead. 
Someone  lies  in  the  garden  and  grieves. 
Look  how  the  branches  are  tossed  in  this  air, 
Flinging  their  green  to  the  earth ! 
Black  clouds  rush  to  devour  the  stars  in  the  sky, 
The  moon  stares  down  like  a  half-closed  eye. 

[102] 


The  House  of  Dust 

The  leaves  are  scattered,  the  birds  are  blown, 
Oaks  crash  down  in  the  darkness, 
We  run  from  our  windy  shadows;  we  are  running 
alone. 


The  moon  was  darkened:  across  it  flew 
The  swift  grey  tenebrous  shape  he  knew, 
Like  a  thing  of  smoke  it  crossed  the  sky, 
The  witch !  he  said.     And  he  heard  a  cry, 
And  another  came,  and  another  came, 
And  one,  grown  duskily  red  with  blood, 
Floated  an  instant  across  the  moon, 
Hung  like  a  dull  fantastic  flame  .   .   . 
The  earth  has  veins:  they  throb  to-night, 
The  earth  swells  warm  beneath  my  feet, 
The  tips  of  the  trees  grow  red  and  bright, 
The  leaves  are  swollen,  I  feel  them  beat, 
They  press  together,  they  push  and  sigh, 
They  listen  to  hear  the  great  bat  cry, 
The  great  red  bat  with  the  woman's  face  .   . 
Hurry !  he  said.     And  pace  for  pace 
That  other,  who  trod  the  dark  with  him, 

[103] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Crushed  the  live  leaves,  reached  out  white  hands 

And  closed  her  eyes,  the  better  to,  see 

The  priests  with  claws,  the  lovers  with  hooves, 

The  fire-lit  rock,  the  sarabands. 

I  am  here !  she  said.     The  bough  he  broke — 

Was  it  the  snapping  bough  that  spoke? 

I  am  here !  she  said.     The  white  thigh  gleamed 

Cold  in  starlight  among  dark  leaves, 

The  head  thrown  backward  as  he  had  dreamed, 

The  shadowy  red  deep  jasper  mouth; 

And  the  lifted  hands,  and  the  virgin  breasts, 

Passed  beside  him,  and  vanished  away. 

I  am  here !  she  cried.     He  answered  'Stay !' 

And  laughter  arose,  and  near  and  far 

Answering  laughter  rose  and  died  .    .    . 

Who  is  there?  in  the  dark?  he  cried. 

He  stood  in  terror,  and  heard  a  sound 

Of  terrible  hooves  on  the  hollow  ground ; 

They  rushed,  were  still;  a  silence  fell; 

And  he  heard  deep  tollings  of  a  bell. 


[104] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Look  beloved !     Why  do  you  hide  your  face  ? 

Look,  in  the  centre  there,  above  the  fire, 

They  are  bearing  the  boy  who  blasphemed  love ! 

They  are  playing  a  piercing  music  upon  him 

With  a  bow  of  living  wire!  .    .   . 

The  virgin  harlot  sings, 

She  leans  above  the  beautiful  anguished  body, 

And  draws  slow  music  from  those  strings. 

They  dance  around  him,  they  fling  red  roses  upon  him, 

They  trample  him  with  their  naked  feet, 

His  cries  are  lost  in  laughter, 

Their  feet  grow  dark  with  his  blood,  they  beat  and 

beat, 

They  dance  upon  him,  until  he  cries  no  more  .   .   . 
Have  we  not  heard  that  cry  before  ? 
Somewhere,  somewhere, 
Beside  a  sea,  in  the  green  evening, 
Beneath  green  clouds,  in  a  copper  sky  .    .   . 
Was  it  you?  was  it  I? 
They   have    quenched   the   fires,    they   dance   in    the 

darkness, 

The  satyrs  have  run  among  them  to  seize  and  tear, 
Look !  he  has  caught  one  by  the  hair, 
She  screams  and  falls,  he  bears  her  away  with  him, 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  the  night  grows  full  of  whistling  wings. 
Far  off,  one  voice,  serene  and  sweet, 
Rises  and  sings  .   .   . 

'By  the  clear  waters  where  once  I  died, 

In  the  calm  evening  bright  with  stars.  .  .  .' 

Where  have  I  heard  these  words?     Was  it  you  who 

sang  them? 
It  was  long  ago. 

Let  us  hurry,  beloved!  the  hard  hooves  trample; 
The  treetops  tremble  and  glow. 


In  the  clear  dark,  on  silent  wings, 
The  red  bat  hovers  beneath  her  moon; 
She  drops  through  the  fragrant  night,  and  clings 
Fast  in  the  shadow,  with  hands  like  claws, 
With  soft  eyes  closed  and  mouth  that  feeds, 
To  the  young  white  flesh  that  warmly  bleeds. 
The  maidens  circle  in  dance,  and  raise 
From  lifting  throats,  a  soft-sung  praise; 
Their  knees  and  breasts  are  white  and  bare, 
They  have  hung  pale  roses  in  their  hair, 

[106] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Each  of  them  as  she  dances  by 

Peers  at  the  blood  with  a  narrowed  eye. 

See  how  the  red  wing  wraps  him  round, 

See  how  the  white  youth  struggles  in  vain ! 

The  weak  arms  writhe  in  a  soundless  pain; 

He  writhes  in  the  soft  red  veiny  wings, 

But  still  she  whispers  upon  him  and  clings.  . 

This  is  the  secret  feast  of  love, 

Look  well,  look  well,  before  it  dies, 

See  how  the  red  one  trembles  above, 

See  how  quiet  the  white  one  lies !  .  .  .  . 


Wind  through  the  trees.  .  .  .and  a  voice  is  heard 

Singing  far  off.     The  dead  leaves  fall.  .  .  . 

'By  the  clear  waters  where  once  I  died, 

In  the  calm  evening  bright  with  stars, 

One  among  numberless  avatars, 

I  wedded  a  mortal,  a  mortal  bride, 

And  lay  on  the  stones  and  gave  my  flesh, 

And  entered  the  hunger  of  him  I  loved. 

How  shall  I  ever  escape  this  mesh 

Or  be  from  my  lover's  body  removed?' 


The  House  of  Dust 

Dead  leaves  stream  through  the  hurrying  air 
And  the  maenads  dance  with  flying  hair. 


The  priests  with  hooves,  the  lovers  with  horns, 
Rise  in  the  starlight,  one  by  one, 
They  draw  their  knives  on  the  spurting  throats, 
They  smear  the  column  with  blood  of  goats, 
They  dabble  the  blood  on  hair  and  lips 
And  wait  like  stones  for  the  moon's  eclipse. 
They  stand  like  stones  and  stare  at  the  sky 
Where  the  moon  leers  down  like  a  half-closed  eye. 
In  the  green  moonlight  still  they  stand 
While  wind  flows  over  the  darkened  sand 
And  brood  on  the  soft  forgotten  things 
That  filled  their  shadowy  yesterdays.  .  .  . 
Where  are  the  breasts,  the  scarlet  wings  ?  .  .  .  . 
They  gaze  at  each  other  with  troubled  gaze.  .  .  . 
And  then,  as  the  shadow  closes  the  moon, 
Shout,  and  strike  with  their  hooves  the  ground, 
And  rush  through  the  dark,  and  fill  the  night 
With  a  slowly  dying  clamor  of  sound. 

[108] 


The  House  of  Dust 

There,  where  the  great  walls  crowd  the  stars, 

There,  by  the  black  wind-riven  walls, 

In  a  grove  of  twisted  leafless  trees.  .  .  . 

Who  are  these  pilgrims,  who  are  these, 

These  three,  the  one  of  whom  stands  upright, 

While  one  lies  weeping  and  one  of  them  crawls? 

The  face  that  he  turned  was  a  wounded  face, 

I  heard  the  dripping  of  blood  on  stones.  .  .  . 

Hooves  had  trampled  and  torn  this  place, 

And  the  leaves  were  strewn  with  blood  and  bones. 

Sometimes,  I  think,  beneath  my  feet, 

The  warm  earth  stretches  herself  and  sighs.  .  .  . 

Listen !     I  heard  the  slow  heart  beat.  .  .  . 

I  will  lie  on  this  grass  as  a  lover  lies 

And  reach  to  the  north  and  reach  to  the  south 

And  seek  in  the  darkness  for  her  mouth. 


Beloved,  beloved,  where  the  slow  waves  of  the  wind 
Shatter  pale  foam  among  great  trees, 
Under  the  hurrying  stars,  under  the  heaving  arches, 
Like  one  whirled  down  under  shadowy  seas, 

[109] 


The  House  of  Dust 

I  run  to  find  you,  I  run  and  cry, 

Where  are  you?     Where  are  you?     It  is  I.     It  is  I. 

It  is  your  eyes  I  seek,  it  is  your  windy  hair, 

Your   starlight   body   that   breathes    in   the   darkness 

there. 

Under  the  darkness  I  feel  you  stirring.  .  .  . 
Is  this  you?     Is  this  you? 
Bats  in  this  air  go  whirring.  .  .  . 
And  this  soft  mouth  that  darkly  meets  my  mouth, 
Is  this  the  soft  mouth  I  knew? 
Darkness,  and  wind  in  the  tortured  trees ; 
And  the  patter  of  dew. 


Dance!     Dance!     Dance!     Dance! 
Dance  till  the  brain  is  red  with  speed ! 
Dance  till  you  fall!     Lift  your  torches! 
Kiss  your  lovers  until  they  bleed ! 
Backward  I  draw  your  anguished  hair 
Until  your  eyes  are  stretched  with  pain; 
Backward  I  press  you  until  you  cry, 
Your  lips  grow  white,  I  kiss  you  again, 

[no] 


The  House  of  Dust 

I  will  take  a  torch  and  set  you  afire, 

I  will  break  your  body  and  fling  it  away.  .    .    . 

Look,  you  are  trembling.  .  .  .Lie  still,  beloved! 

Lock  your  hands  in  my  hair,  and  say 

Darling!     darling!     darling!     darling! 

All  night  long  till  the  break  of  day. 

Is  it  your  heart  I  hear  beneath  me.  .  .  . 

Or  the  far  tolling  of  that  tower? 

The  voices  are  still  that  cried  around  us.  ... 

The  woods  grow  still  for  the  sacred  hour. 

Rise,  white  lover!     the  day  draws  near. 

The  grey  trees  lean  to  the  east  in  fear. 

'By  the  clear  waters  where  once  I  died  .   .   .  .' 

Beloved,  whose  voice  was  this  that  cried? 

'By  the  clear  waters  that  reach  the  sun 

By  the  clear  waves  that  starward  run.  .  .  . 

I  found  love's  body  and  lost  his  soul, 

And  crumbled  in  flame  that  should  have  annealed.  . 

How  shall  I  ever  again  be  whole, 

By  what  dark  waters  shall  I  be  healed?' 

Silence.  .  .  .the  red  leaves,  one  by  one, 
Fall.     Far  off,  the  maenads  run. 


The  House  of  Dust 

Silence.     Beneath  my  naked  feet 
The  veins  of  the  red  earth  swell  and  beat. 
The  dead  leaves  sigh  on  the  troubled  air, 
Far  off  the  maenads  bind  their  hair.  .  .  . 
Hurry,  beloved!    the  day  comes  soon. 
The  fire  is  drawn  from  the  heart  of  the  moon. 
***** 

The  great  bell  cracks  and  falls  at  last. 

The  moon  whirls  out.     The  sky  grows  still. 

Look,  how  the  white  cloud  crosses  the  stars 

And  suddenly  drops  behind  the  hill! 

Your  eyes  are  placid,  you  smile  at  me, 

We  sit  in  the  room  by  candle-light. 

We  peer  in  each  other's  veins  and  see 

No  sign  of  the  things  we  saw  this  night. 

Only,  a  song  is  in  your  ears, 

A  song  you  have  heard,  you  think,  in  dream : 

The  song  which  only  the  demon  hears, 

In  the  dark  forest  where  maenads  scream  .    . 

'By  the  clear  waters  where  once  I  died 
In  the  calm  evening  bright  with  stars  .   .    .  ' 
What  do  the  strange  words  mean?  you  say, — 
And  touch  my  hand,  and  turn  away. 

[112] 


The  House  of  Dust 

XIII. 

The  half-shut   doors   through   which   we   heard  that 

music 

Are  softly  closed.     Horns  mutter  down  to  silence. 
The  stars  whirl  out,  the  night  grows  deep. 
Darkness  settles  upon  us.     A  vague  refrain 
Drowsily  teases  at  the  drowsy  brain. 
In  numberless  rooms  we  stretch  ourselves  and  sleep. 

Where  have  we  been?     What  savage  chaos  of  music 
Whirls  in  our  dreams  ? — We  suddenly  rise  in  darkness, 
Open  our  eyes,  cry  out,  and  sleep  once  more. 
We  dream  we   are  numberless   sea-waves   languidly 

foaming 
A  warm  white  moonlit  shore ; 

Or  clouds  blown  windily  over  a  sky  at  midnight, 
Or  chords  of  music  scattered  in  hurrying  darkness, 
Or  a  singing  sound  of  rain  .   .   . 
We  open  our  eyes  and  stare  at  the  coiling  darkness, 
And  enter  our  dreams  again. 


PART  IV. 


'This  envelope  you  say  has  something  in  it 

Which  once  belonged  to  your  dead  son — or  something 

He  knew,  was  fond  of?     Something  he  remembers? — 

The  soul  flies  far,  and  we  can  only  call  it 

By  things  like  these  ...  a  photograph,  a  letter, 

Ribbon,  or  charm,  or  watch  .    .   .  ' 

.   .   .  Wind  flows  softly,  the  long  slow  even  wind, 
Over  the  low  roofs  white  with  snow; 
Wind  blows,  bearing  cold  clouds  over  the  ocean, 
One  by  one  they  melt  and  flow, — 

Streaming  one  by  one  over  trees  and  towers, 
Coiling  and  gleaming  in  shafts  of  sun; 
Wind  flows,  bearing  clouds;  the  hurrying  shadows 
Flow  under  them  one  by  one  .   .   . 

'  .  .  .  A  spirit  darkens  before  me  .  .  .  it  is  the  spirit 
Which  in  the  flesh  you  called  your  son  ...  A  spirit 
Young  and  strong  and  beautiful  .  .  . 

[114] 


The  House  of  Dust 

He  says  that  he  is  happy,  is  much  honored; 
Forgives  and  is  forgiven  .   .    .  rain  and  wind 
Do  not  perplex  him  .  .  .  storm  and  dust  forgotten 
The  glittering  wheels  in  wheels  of  time  are  broken 
And  laid  aside  .   .   . 


'Ask  him  why  he  did  the  thing  he  did !' 

'He  is  unhappy.     This  thing,  he  says,  transcends  you 
Dust  cannot  hold  what  shines  beyond  the  dust  .   .    . 
What  seems  calamity  is  less  than  a  sigh ; 
What  seems  disgrace  is  nothing.' 

'Ask  him  if  the  one  he  hurt  is  there, 
And  if  she  loves  him  still !' 


'He  tells  you  she  is  there,  and  loves  him  still,— 
Not  as  she  did,  but  as  all  spirits  love  .   .   . 
A  cloud  of  spirits  has  gathered  about  him. 
They  praise  him  and  call  him,  they  do  him  honor; 
He  is  more  beautiful,  he  shines  upon  them.' 


The  House  of  Dust 

.  .  .  Wind  flows  softly,  the  long  deep  tremulous  wind, 
Over  the  low  roofs  white  with  snow  .   .   . 
Wind  flows,  bearing  dreams;  they  gather  and  vanish, 
One  by  one  they  sing  and  flow ; 

Over  the  outstretched  lands  of  days  remembered, 
Over  remembered  tower  and  wall, 
One  by  one  they  gather  and  talk  in  the  darkness, 
Rise  and  glimmer  and  fall  .   .   . 

'Ask  him  why  he  did  the  thing  he  did ! 
He  knows  I  will  understand!' 

'It  is  too  late: 
He  will  not  hear  me :  I  have  lost  my  power.' 

'Three  times  I've  asked  him!     He  will  never  tell  me. 
God  have  mercy  upon  him.     I  will  ask  no  more.' 


n. 

The  door  is  shut.     She  leaves  the  curtained  office, 
And    down   the   grey-walled    stairs    comes    trembling 
slowly 

[116] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Towards  the  dazzling  street. 

Her  withered  hand  clings  tightly  to  the  railing. 

The  long  stairs  rise  and  fall  beneath  her  feet. 

Here  in  the  brilliant  sun  we  jostle,  waiting 

To  tear  her  secret  out  ...  We  laugh,  we  hurry, 

We  go  our  way,  revolving,  sinister,  slow. 

She  blinks  in  the  sun,  and  then  steps  faintly  downward. 

We  whirl  her  away,  we  shout,  we  spin,  we  flow. 

Where   have  you  been,   old  lady?     We  know   your 

secret ! — 

Voices  jangle  about  her,  jeers,  and  laughter.  .  .  . 
She  trembles,  tries  to  hurry,  averts  her  eyes. 
Tell  us  the  truth,  old  lady!  where  have  you  been? 
She  turns  and  turns,  her  brain  grows  dark  with  cries. 


Look  at  the  old  fool  tremble!     She's  been  paying- 
Paying  good  money,  too, — to  talk  to  spirits.  .  .  . 
She  thinks  she's  heard  a  message  from  one  dead ! 
What  did  he  tell  you?     Is  he  well  and  happy? 
Don't  lie  to  us — we  all  know  what  he  said. 


The  House  of  Dust 

He  said  the  one  he  murdered  once  still  loves  him; 
He  said  the  wheels  in  wheels  of  time  are  broken ; 
And  dust  and  storm  forgotten;  and  all  forgiven.  .  .  . 
But  what  you  asked  he  wouldn't  tell  you,  though, — 
Ha  ha !     there's  one  thing  you  will  never  know ! 
That's  what  you  get  for  meddling  so  with  heaven ! 

Where   have  you   been,   old  lady?     Where   are  you 

going? 

We  know,  we  know !     She's  been  to  gab  with  spirits. 
Look  at  the  old  fool !     getting  ready  to  cry ! 
What  have  you  got  in  an  envelope,  old  lady? 
A  lock  of  hair?     An  eyelash  from  his  eye? 

How  do  you  know  the  medium  didn't  fool  you  ? 
Perhaps  he  had  no  spirit — perhaps  he  killed  it. 
Here  she  comes !     the  old  fool's  lost  her  son. 
What  did  he  have — blue  eyes  and  golden  hair? 
We  know  your  secret!  what's  done  is  done. 

Look  out,  you'll  fall — and  fall,  if  you're  not  careful, 
Right  into  an  open  grave.  .  .  .but  what's  the  hurry? 
You  don't  think  you  will  find  him  when  you're  dead? 
Cry!     Cry!     Look  at  her  mouth  all  twisted,— 
Look  at  her  eyes  all  red! 

[118] 


The  House  of  Dust 

We  know  you — know  your  name  and  all  about  you, 
All  you  remember  and  think,  and  all  you  scheme  for. 
We  tear  your  secret  out,  we  leave  you,  go 
Laughingly  down  the  street.  .  .  .Die,  if  you  want  to ! 
Die,  then,  if  you're  in  such  a  hurry  to  know  !— 

...  .She  falls.     We  lift  her  head.     The  wasted  body 
Weighs  nothing  in  our  hands.     Does  no  one  know 

her? 

Was  no  one  with  her  when  she  fell?  .  .  . 
We  eddy  about  her,  move  away  in  silence. 
We  hear  slow  tollings  of  a  bell. 


in. 


Well,  as  you  say,  we  live  for  small  horizons : 
We  move  in  crowds,  we  flow  and  talk  together, 
Seeing  so  many  eyes  and  hands  and  faces, 
So  many  mouths,  and  all  with  secret  meanings  — 
Yet  know  so  little  of  them ;  only  seeing 
The  small  bright  circle  of  our  consciousness, 
Beyond  which  lies  the  dark.     Some  few  we  know— 
Or  think  we  know.  .  .  Once,  on  a  sun-bright  morning, 
I  walked  in  a  certain  hallway,  trying  to  find 


The  House  of  Dust 

A  certain  door:  I  found  one,  tried  it,  opened, 
And  there  in  a  spacious  chamber,  brightly  lighted, 
A  hundred  men  played  music,  loudly,  swiftly, 
While  one  tall  woman  sent  her  voice  above  them 
In  powerful  sweetness.  .  .  .Closing  then  the  door 
I  heard  it  die  behind  me,  fade  to  whisper, — 
And  walked  in  a  quiet  hallway  as  before. 
Just  such  a  glimpse,  as  through  that  opened  door, 
Is  all  we  know  of  those  we  call  our  friends.  .  . 
We  hear  a  sudden  music,  see  a  playing 
Of  ordered  thoughts— and  all  again  is  silence. 
The  music,  we  suppose,  (as  in  ourselves) 

Goes  on  forever  there,  behind  shut  doors, 

As  it  continues  after  our  departure, 
So,  we  divine,  it  played  before  we  came 
What  do  you  know  of  me,  or  I  of  you? 
Little  enough.  .  .  .We  set  these  doors  ajar 
Only  for  chosen  movements  of  the  music : 
This  passage,  (so  I  think— yet  this  is  guesswork) 
Will  please  him,— it  is  in  a  strain  he  fancies,— 
More  brilliant,  though,  than  his ;  and  while  he  likes  it 
He  will  be  piqued  ...  He  looks  at  me  bewildered 
And  thinks    (to  judge   from  self— this  too  is  guess 
work) 

[120] 


The  House  of  Dust 

The  music  strangely  subtle,  deep  in  meaning, 

Perplexed  with  implications;  he  suspects  me 

Of  hidden  riches,  unexpected  wisdom.  .  .  . 

Or  else  I  let  him  hear  a  lyric  passage, — 

Simple  and  clear ;  and  all  the  while  he  listens 

I  make  pretence  to  think  my  doors  are  closed. 

This  too  bewilders  him.     He  eyes  me  sidelong 

Wondering  'Is  he  such  a  fool  as  this? 

Or  only  mocking?' — There  I  let  it  end.  .  .  . 

Sometimes,  of  course,  and  when  we  least  suspect  it — 

When  we  pursue  our  thoughts  with  too  much  passion, 

Talking  with  too  great  zeal — our  doors  fly  open 

Without  intention;  and  the  hungry  watcher 

Stares  at  the  feast,  carries  away  our  secrets, 

And  laughs.  .  .  .but  this,  for  many  counts,  is  seldom. 

And  for  the  most  part  we  vouchsafe  our  friends, 

Our  lovers  too,  only  such  few  clear  notes 

As  we  shall  deem  them  likely  to  admire: 

Traise  me  for  this*  we  say,  or  'laugh  at  this/ 

Or  'marvel  at  my  candor'.  .  .  .all  the  while 

Withholding  what's  most  precious  to  ourselves, — 

Some  sinister  depth  of  lust  or  fear  or  hatred, 

The  sombre  note  that  gives  the  chord  its  power; 

[121] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Or  a  white  loveliness — if  such  we  know — 
Too  much  like  fire  to  speak  of  without  shame. 

Well,  this  being  so,  and  we  who  know  it  being 
So  curious  about  those  well-locked  houses, 
The  minds  of  those  we  know, — to  enter  softly, 
And  steal  from  floor  to  floor  up  shadowy  stairways, 
From  room  to  quiet  room,  from  wall  to  wall, 
Breathing  deliberately  the  very  air, 
Pressing  our  hands  and  nerves  against  warm  darkness 
To  learn  what  ghosts  are  there, — 
Suppose  for  once  I  set  my  doors  wide  open 
And  bid  you  in.  .  .  .Suppose  I  try  to  tell  you 
The  secrets  of  this  house,  and  how  I  live  here; 
Suppose  I  tell  you  who  I  am,  in  fact.  .  .  . 
Deceiving  you — as  far  as  I  may  know  it- 
Only  so  much  as  I  deceive  myself. 

If  you  are  clever  you  already  see  me 
As  one  who  moves  forever  in  a  cloud 
Of  warm  bright  vanity :  a  luminous  cloud 
Which  falls  on  all  things  with  a  quivering  magic, 
Changing  such  outlines  as  a  light  may  change, 
Brightening  what  lies  dark  to  me,  concealing 

[122] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Those  things  that  will  not  change   ...   I  walk  sus 
tained 

In  a  world  of  things  that  flatter  me :  a  sky 
Just  as  I  would  have  had  it ;  trees  and  grass 
Just  as  I  would  have  shaped  and  colored  them; 
Pigeons  and  clouds  and  sun  and  whirling  shadows, 
And   stars    that   brightening   climb   through   mist   at 

nightfall,— 

In  some  deep  way  I  am  aware  these  praise  me : 
Where  they  are  beautiful,  or  hint  of  beauty, 
They  point,  somehow,  to  me.  .  .  .This  water  says, — 
Shimmering  at  the  sky,  or  undulating 
In  broken  gleaming  parodies  of  clouds, 
Rippled  in  blue,  or  sending  from  cool  depths 
To  meet  the  falling  leaf  the  leaf's  clear  image, — 
This  water  says,  there  is  some  secret  in  you 
Akin  to  my  clear  beauty,  beauty  swaying 
To  mirror  beauty,  silently  responsive 
To  all  that  circles  you.     This  bare  tree  says, — 
Austere  and  stark  and  leafless,  split  with  frost, 
Resonant  in  the  wind,  with  rigid  branches 
Flung  out  against  the  sky, — this  tall  tree  says, 
There  is  some  cold  austerity  in  you, 
A  frozen  strength,  with  long  roots  gnarled  on  rocks, 


The  House  of  Dust 

Fertile  and  deep;  you  bide  your  time,  are  patient, 
Serene  in  silence,  bare  to  outward  seeming, 
Concealing  what  reserves  of  power  and  beauty! 
What  teeming  Aprils ! — chorus  of  leaves  on  leaves  ! 
These  houses  say,  such  walls  in  walls  as  ours, 
Such  streets  of  walls,  solid  and  smooth  of  surface, 
Such  hills  and  cities  of  walls,  walls  upon  walls ; 
Motionless  in  the  sun,  or  dark  with  rain; 
Walls   pierced  with  windows,   where   the   light  may 

enter ; 

Walls  windowless  where  darkness  is  desired; 
Towers  and  labyrinths  and  domes  and  chambers, — 
Amazing  deep  recesses,  dark  on  dark, — 
All  these  are  like  the  walls  which  shape  your  spirit  : 
You  move,  are  warm,  within  them,  laugh  within  them, 
Proud  of  their  depth  and  strength;  or  sally  from  them, 
When  you  are  bold,  to  blow  great  horns  at  the  world. . 
This  deep  cool  room,  with  shadowed  walls  and  ceiling, 
Tranquil  and  cloistral,  fragrant  of  my  mind, 
This  cool  room  says, — just  such  a  room  have  you, 
It  waits  you  always  at  the  tops  of  stairways, 
Withdrawn,  remote,   familiar  to  your  uses, 
Where  you  may  cease  pretence  and  be  yourself.  .  .  . 
And  this  embroidery,  hanging  on  this  wall, 


The  House  of  Dust 

Hung  there  forever,— these  so  soundless  glidings 
Of  dragons  golden-scaled,  sheer  birds  of  azure, 
Ceilings  of  leaves  in  pale  vermilion,  griffins 
Drawing  their  rainbow  wings  through  involutions 
Of  mauve  chrysanthemums  and  lotus  flowers, — 
This  goblin  wood  where  someone  cries  enchantment,— 
This  says,  just  such  an  involuted  beauty 
Of  thought  and  coiling  thought,   dream  linked  with 

dream, 

Image  to  image  gliding,  wreathing  fires, 
Soundlessly  cries  enchantment  in  your  mind : 
You  need  but  sit  and  close  your  eyes  a  moment 
To  see  these  deep  designs  unfold  themselves. 


And  so,  all  things  discern  me,  name  me,  praise  me— 
I  walk  in  a  world  of  silent  voices,  praising; 
And  in  this  world  you  see  me  like  a  wraith 
Blown  softly  here  and  there,  on  silent  winds. 
'Praise  me' — I  say;  and  look,  not  in  a  glass, 
But  in  your  eyes,  to  see  my  image  there— 
Or  in  your  mind ;  you  smile,  I  am  contented ; 
You  look  at  me,  with  interest  unfeigned, 
And  listen — I  am  pleased ;  or  else,  alone, 


The  House  of  Dust 

I  watch  thin  bubbles  veering  brightly  upward 
From  unknown  depths, — my  silver  thoughts  ascend 
ing; 

Saying  now  this,  now  that,  hinting  of  all  things, — 
Dreams,  and  desires,  velleities,  regrets, 
Faint  ghosts  of  memory,  strange  recognitions, — 
But  all  with  one  deep  meaning :  this  is  I, 
This  is  the  glistening  secret  holy  I, 
This  silver-winged  wonder,  insubstantial, 
This  singing  ghost.  .  .  .And  hearing,  I  am  warmed. 


You  see  me  moving,  then,  as  one  who  moves 
Forever  at  the  centre  of  his  circle : 
A  circle  filled  with  light.     And  into  it 
Come  bulging  shapes  from  darkness,  loom  gigantic, 
Or  huddle  in  dark  again.  .  .  .A  clock  ticks  clearly, 
A  gas-jet  steadily  whirs,  light  streams  across  me; 
Two  church  bells,  with  alternate  beat,  strike  nine; 
And  through  these  things  my  pencil  pushes  softly 
To  weave  grey  webs  of  lines  on  this  clear  page. 
Snow  falls  and  melts ;  the  eaves  make  liquid  music ; 
Black  wheel-tracks  line  the  snow-touched  street ;  I  turn 
And  look  one  instant  at  the  half-dark  gardens, 


The  House  of  Dust 

Where  skeleton  elm-trees  reach  with  frozen  gesture 
Above  unsteady  lamps, — with  black  boughs  flung 
Against  a  luminous  snow-filled  grey-gold  sky. 
'Beauty !'  I  cry.  .  .  .My  feet  move  on,  and  take  me 
Between  dark  walls,  with  orange  squares  for  windows. 
Beauty;  beheld  like  someone  half -forgotten, 
Remembered,  with  slow  pang,  as  one  neglected  .    .    . 
Well,  I  am  frustrate;  life  has  beaten  me, 
The  thing  I  strongly  seized  has  turned  to  darkness, 
And    darkness    rides    my    heart.  .  .  .These    skeleton 

elm-trees — 

Leaning  against  that  grey-gold  snow  filled  sky — 
Beauty !  they  say,  and  at  the  edge  of  darkness 
Extend  vain  arms  in  a  frozen  gesture  of  protest  .   .   . 
A  clock  ticks  softly;  a  gas-jet  steadily  whirs: 
The  pencil  meets  its  shadow  upon  clear  paper, 
Voices  are  raised,  a  door  is  slammed.     The  lovers, 
Murmuring  in  an  adjacent  room,  grow  silent, 
The  eaves  make  liquid  music.  .  .  .Hours  have  passed, 
And  nothing  changes,  and  everything  is  changed. 
Exultation  is  dead,  Beauty  is  harlot, — 
And  walks  the  streets.     The  thing  I  strongly  seized 
Has  turned  to  darkness,  and  darkness  rides  my  heart. 


The  House  of  Dust 

If  you  could  solve  this  darkness  you  would  have  me. 
This  causeless  melancholy  that  comes  with  rain, 
Or  on  such  days  as  this  when  large  wet  snowflakes 
Drop  heavily,  with  rain  .    .    .  whence  rises  this? 
Well,  so-and-so,  this  morning  when  I  saw  him, 
Seemed  much  preoccupied,  and  would  not  smile ; 
And  you,  I  saw  too  much ;  and  you,  too  little ; 
And  the  word  I  chose  for  you,  the  golden  word, 
The  word  that  should  have  struck  so  deep  in  purpose, 
And  set  so  many  doors  of  wish  wide  open, 
You  let  it  fall,  and  would  not  stoop  for  it, 
And  smiled  at  me,  and  would  not  let  me  guess 
Whether  you  saw  it  fall.  .  .  .These  things,  together, 
With  other  things,  still  slighter,  wove  to  music, 
And  this  in  time  drew  up  dark  memories ; 
And  there  I  stand.     This  music  breaks  and  bleeds  me, 
Turning  all  frustrate  dreams  to  chords  and  discords, 
Faces  and  griefs,  and  words,  and  sunlit  evenings, 
And    chains    self -forged    that    will    not    break    nor 

lengthen, 

And  cries  that  none  can  answer,  few  will  hear. 
Have  these  things  meaning?     Or  would  you  see  more 

clearly 

If  I  should  say  'My  second  wife  grows  tedious, 
Or,  like  gay  tulip,  keeps  no  perfumed  secret'? 


The  House  of  Dust 

Or  'one  day  dies  eventless  as  another, 

Leaving  the  seeker  still  unsatisfied, 

And  more  convinced  life  yields  no  satisfaction'? 

Or  'seek  too  hard,  the  sight  at  length  grows  callous, 

And  beauty  shines  in  vain'?— 

These  things  you  ask  for, 
These  you   shall  have..  .  .So,   talking  with  my  first 

wife, 

At  the  dark  end  of  evening,  when  she  leaned 
And  smiled  at  me,  with  blue  eyes  weaving  webs 
Of  finest  fire,  revolving  me  in  scarlet, — 
Calling  to  mind  remote  and  small  successions 
Of  countless  other  evenings  ending  so,— 
I  smiled,  and  met  her  kiss,  and  wished  her  dead; 
Dead  of  a  sudden  sickness,  or  by  my  hands 
Savagely  killed ;  I  saw  her  in  her  coffin, 
I  saw  her  coffin  borne  downstairs  with  trouble, 
I  saw  myself  alone  there,  palely  watching, 
Wearing  a  masque  of  grief  so  deeply  acted 
That  grief  itself  possessed  me.     Time  would  pass, 
And  I  should  meet  this  girl, — my  second  wife— 
And  drop  the  masque  of  grief  for  one  of  passion. 
Forward  we  move  to  meet,  half  hesitating, 


The  House  of  Dust 

We  drown  in  each  others'  eyes,  we  laugh,  we  talk, 
Looking  now  here,  now  there,  faintly  pretending 
We  do  not  hear  the  powerful  pulsing  prelude 
Roaring  beneath  our  words  .  .  .  The  time  approaches. 
We  lean  unbalanced.     The  mute  last  glance  between 

us, 

Profoundly  searching,  opening,  asking,  yielding, 
Is  steadily  met :  our  two  lives  draw  together  .  .  . 
.  .  .  /What  are  you  thinking  of  ?'.  .  .  .My  first  wife's 

voice 

Scattered  these  ghosts.    'Oh  nothing — nothing  much- 
Just  wondering  where  we'd  be  two  years  from  now, 
And  what  we  might  be  doing  .   .   .  '  And  then  remorse 
Turned  sharply  in  my  mind  to  sudden  pity, 
And  pity  to  echoed  love.     And  one  more  evening 
Drew  to  the  usual  end  of  sleep  and  silence. 

And,  as  it  is  with  this,  so  too  with  all  things. 
The  pages  of  our  lives  are  blurred  palimpsest : 
New  lines  are  wreathed  on  old  lines  half -erased, 
And  those  on  older  still;  and  so  forever. 
The  old  shines  through  the  new,  and  colors  it.  . 
What's  new?     What's  old?     All  things  have  double 
meanings, — 

[130] 


The  House  of  Dust 

All  things  return.     I  write  a  line  with  passion 

(Or  touch  a  woman's  hand,  or  plumb  a  doctrine) 

Only  to  find  the  same  thing,  done  before, — 

Only  to  know  the  same  thing  comes  to-morrow.  .  .  . 

This  curious  riddled  dream  I  dreamed  last  night, — 

Six  years  ago  I  dreamed  it  just  as  now; 

The  same  man  stooped  to  me ;  we  rose  from  darkness, 

And  broke  the  accustomed  order  of  our  days, 

And  struck  for  the  morning  world,  and  warmth,  and 

freedom.  .  .  . 

What  does  it  mean?     Why  is  this  hint  repeated? 
What  darkness  does  it  spring  from,  seek  to  end? 


You  see  me,  then,  pass  up  and  down  these  stairways, 
Now   through    a   beam   of    light,    and   now    through 

shadow, — 

Pursuing  silent  ends.     No  rest  there  is, — 
No  more  for  me  than  you.     I  move  here  always, 
From  quiet  room  to  room,  from  wall  to  wall, 
Searching  and  plotting,  weaving  a  web  of  days. 
This  is  my  house,  and  now,  perhaps,  you  know  me.  .  . 
Yet  I  confess,  for  all  my  best  intentions, 
Once  more  I  have  deceived  you.  .  .  .1  withhold 

[131] 


The  House  of  Dust 

The  one  thing  precious,  the  one  dark  thing  that  guides 

me; 
And  I  have  spread  two  snares  for  you,  of  lies. 


IV. 

He,  in  the  room  above,  grown  old  and  tired, 
She,  in  the  room  below — his  floor  her  ceiling — 
Pursue  their  separate  dreams.     He  turns  his  light, 
And  throws  himself  on  the  bed,  face  down,  in  laugh 
ter.  .  .  . 
She,  by  the  window,  smiles  at  a  starlight  night, 

His  watch — the  same  he  has  heard  these  cycles  of 

ages— 

Wearily  chimes  at  seconds  beneath  his  pillow. 
The  clock,  upon  her  mantelpiece,  strikes  nine. 
The  night  wears  on.     She  hears  dull  steps  above  her. 
The  world  whirs  on.  .  .  .New  stars  come  up  to  shine. 

His  youth — far  off — he  sees  it  brightly  walking 
In  a  golden  cloud.  .  .  .Wings  flashing  about  it.  .  .  . 
Darkness 


The  House  of  Dust 

Walls  it  around  with  dripping  enormous  walls. 
Old  age — far  off — her  death — what  do  they  matter? 
Down  the  smooth  purple  night  a  streaked  star  falls. 

She  hears  slow  steps  in  the  street — they  chime  like 

music ; 
They  climb  to  her  heart,  they  break  and  flower  in 

beauty, 

Along  her  veins  they  glisten  and  ring  and  burn.  .  .  . 
He  hears  his  own  slow  steps  tread  down  to  silence. 
Far  off  they  pass.     He  knows  they  will  never  return. 

Far   off — on    a    smooth    dark    road — he   hears    them 

faintly. 

The  road,  like  a  sombre  river,  quietly  flowing, 
Moves  among  murmurous  walls.     A  deeper  breath 
Swells  them  to  sound :  he  hears  his  steps  more  clearly. 
And  death  seems  nearer  to  him :  or  he  to  death. 

What's  death? — She  smiles.  The  cool  stone  hurts  her 
elbows. 

The  last  of  the  rain-drops  gather  and  fall  from  elm- 
boughs, 

[133] 


The  House  of  Dust 

She  sees  them  glisten  and  break.  The  arc-lamp  sings, 
The  new  leaves  dip  in  the  warm  wet  air  and  fragrance. 
A  sparrow  whirs  to  the  eaves,  and  shakes  his  wings. 

What's  death — what's  death?     The  spring  returns  like 

music, 

The  trees  are  like  dark  lovers  who  dream  in  starlight, 
The  soft  grey  clouds  go  over  the  stars  like  dreams. 
The  cool  stone  wounds  her  arms  to  pain,  to  pleasure. 
Under  the  lamp  a  circle  of  wet  street  gleams.  .  .  . 
And  death  seems  far  away,  a  thing  of  roses, 
A  golden  portal,  where  golden  music  closes, 
Death  seems  far  away: 

And  spring  returns,  the  countless  singing  of  lovers, 
And  spring  returns  to  stay.  .  .  . 

He,  in  the  room  above,  grown  old  and  tired, 
Flings  himself  on  the  bed,  face  down,  in  laughter, 
And  clenches  his  hands,  and  remembers,  and  desires 

to  die. 

And  she,  by  the  window,  smiles  at  a  night  of  starlight. 
.  .  .  The  soft  grey  clouds  go  slowly  across  the  sky. 

[134] 


The  House  of  Dust 


v. 


No,  I  shall  not  say  why  it  is  that  I  love  you — 

Why  do  you  ask  me,  save  for  vanity  ? 

Surely  you  would  not  have  me,  like  a  mirror, 

Say    'yes, — your    hair    curls    darkly    back    from    the 

temples, 
Your    mouth    has    a    humorous,    tremulous,    half-shy 

sweetness, 

Your  eyes  are  April  grey.  .  .  .with  jonquils  in  them?' 
No,  if  I  tell  at  all,  I  shall  tell  in  silence  .    .    . 
I'll  say — my  childhood  broke  through  chords  of  music 
— Or  were  they  chords  of  sun? — wherein  fell  shadows, 
Or  silences ;  I  rose  through  seas  of  sunlight ; 
Or  sometimes  found  a  darkness  stooped  above  me 
With  wings  of  death,  and  a  face  of  cold  clear  beauty.  . 
I  lay  in  the  warm  sweet  grass  on  a  blue  May  morning, 
My  chin  in  a  dandelion,  my  hands  in  clover, 
And  drowsed  there  like  a  bee.  .  .  .blue  days  behind  me 
Stretched  like  a  chain  of  deep  blue  pools  of  magic, 
Enchanted,  silent,  timeless.  .  .  .days  before  me 
Murmured  of  blue-sea  mornings,  noons  of  gold, 
Green  evenings  streaked  with  lilac,  bee-starred  nights. 
Confused  soft  clouds  of  music  fled  above  me. 

[135] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Sharp  shafts  of  music  dazzled  my  eyes  and  pierced 

me. 

I  ran  and  turned  and  spun  and  danced  in  the  sunlight, 
Shrank,    sometimes,    from    the    freezing    silence    of 

beauty, 
Or  crept  once  more  to  the  warm  white  cave  of  sleep. 

No,  I  shall  not  say  'this  is  why  I  praise  you — 
Because  you  say  such  wise  things,  or  such  foolish.  .  / 
You  would  not  have  me  say  what  you  know  better? 
Let  me  instead  be  silent,  only  saying — : 
My  childhood  lives  in  me — or  half-lives,  rather — 
And,  if  I  close  my  eyes  cool  chords  of  music 
Flow  up  to  me   .    .    .   long  chords  of  wind  and  sun 
light.  .  .  . 

Shadows  of  intricate  vines  on  sunlit  walls, 
Deep  bells  beating,  with  aeons  of  blue  between  them, 
Grass  blades  leagues  apart  with  worlds  between  them, 
Walls  rushing  up  to  heaven  with  stars  upon  them.  .  . 
I  lay  in  my  bed  and  through  the  tall  night  window 
Saw  the  green  lightning  plunging  among  the  clouds, 
And  heard  the  harsh   rain   storm   at  the  panes   and 

roof.  .  .  . 
How  should  I  know — how  should  I  now  remember — 


The  House  of  Dust 

What    half-dreamed    great    wings    curved    and    sang 

above  me? 
What  wings  like  swords?     What  eyes  with  the  dread 

night  in  them? 

This  I  shall  say.— I  lay  by  the  hot  white  sand-dunes.  . 
Small  yellow  flowers,  sapless  and  squat  and  spiny, 
Stared  at  the  sky.     And  silently  there  above  us 
Day  after  day,  beyond  our  dreams  and  knowledge, 
Presences  swept,  and  over  us  streamed  their  shadows, 
Swift  and  blue,  or  dark.  .  .  .What  did  they  mean? 
What  sinister  threat  of  power?     What  hint  of  beauty? 
Prelude  to  what  gigantic  music,  or  subtle? 
Only  I  know  these  things  leaned  over  me, 
Brooded  upon  me,  paused,  went  flowing  softly, 
Glided  and  passed.     I  loved,  I  desired,  I  hated, 
I    struggled,    I    yielded   and   loved,    was    warmed   to 

blossom  .   .   . 

You,  when  your  eyes  have  evening  sunlight  in  them, 
Set  these  dunes  before  me,  these  salt  bright  flowers, 
These  presences.  .  .  .1  drowse,  they  stream  above  me, 
I  struggle,  I  yield  and  love,  I  am  warmed  to  dream. 

You  are  the  window  (if  I  could  tell  I'd  tell  you) 
Through  which  I  see  a  clear  far  world  of  sunlight. 

[137] 


The  House  of  Dust 

You  are  the  silence  (if  you  could  hear  you'd  hear  me) 
In  which  I  remember  a  thin  still  whisper  of  singing. 
It  is  not  you  I  laugh  for,  you  I  touch ! 
My  hands,  that  touch  you,  suddenly  touch  white  cob 
webs, 

Coldly  silvered,  heavily  silvered  with  dewdrops ; 
And  clover,  heavy  with  rain ;  and  cold  green  grass.  .  . 


VI. 

As  evening  falls, 

The  walls  grow  luminous  and  warm,  the  walls 

Tremble  and  glow  with  the  lives  within  them  moving, 

Moving  like  music,  secret  and  rich  and  warm. 

How  shall  we  live  to-night,  where  shall  we  turn? 

To  what  new  light  or  darkness  yearn  ? 

A  thousand  winding  stairs  lead  down  before  us  ; 

And  one  by  one  in  myriads  we  descend 

By  lamplit  flowered  walls,  long  balustrades, 

Through  half-lit  halls  which  reach  no  end.  .  . 

Take  my  arm,  then,  you  or  you  or  you, 
And  let  us  walk  abroad  on  the  solid  air : 
Look  how  the  organist's  head,  in  silhouette, 
Leans  to  the  lamplit  music's  orange  square!  .    .    . 

[138] 


The  House  of  Dust 

The  dim- globed  lamps  illumine  rows  of  faces, 
Rows  of  hands  and  arms  and  hungry  eyes, 
They  have  hurried  down  from  a  myriad  secret  places, 
From  windy  chambers  next  to  the  skies.  .  .  . 
The  music  comes  upon  us.  .  .  .it  shakes  the  darkness, 
It  shakes  the  darkness  in  our  minds.  .  .  . 
And  brilliant  figures  suddenly  fill  the  darkness, 
Down  the  white  shaft  of  light  they  run  through  dark 
ness, 
And  in  our  hearts  a  dazzling  dream  unwinds  .   .   . 

Take  my  hand,  then,  walk  with  me 

By  the  slow  soundless  crashings  of  a  s«a 

Down  miles  on  miles  of  glistening  mirrorlike  sand, — 

Take  my  hand 

And  walk  with  me  once  more  by  crumbling  walls ; 

Up  mouldering  stairs  where  grey-stemmed  ivy  clings, 

To  hear  forgotten  bells,  as  evening  falls, 

Rippling    above    us    invisibly    their    slowly    widening 

rings.  .  .  . 

Did  you  once  love  me?     Did  you  bear  a  name? 
Did  you  once  stand  before  me  without  shame?  .  .  . 
Take  my  hand :  your  face  is  one  I  know, 
I  loved  you,  long  ago : 

[139] 


The  House  of  Dust 

You  are  like  music,  long  forgotten,  suddenly  come  to 

mind  ; 

You  are  like  spring  returned  through  snow. 
Once,  I  know,  I  walked  with  you  in  starlight, 
And  many  nights  I  slept  and  dreamed  of  you ; 
Come,  let  us  climb  once  more  these  stairs  of  starlight, 
This  midnight  stream  of  cloud-flung  blue!  . 
Music  murmurs  beneath  us  like  a  sea, 
And  faints  to  a  ghostly  whisper  .   .   .  Come  with  me. 

Are  you  still  doubtful  of  me — hesitant  still, 
Fearful,  perhaps,  that  I  may  yet  remember 
What  you  would  gladly,  if  you  could,  forget? 
You  were  unfaithful  once,  you  met  your  lover; 
Still  in  your  heart  you  bear  that  red-eyed  ember; 
And  I  was  silent, — you  remember  my  silence  yet  .   .   . 
You  knew,  as  well  as  I,  I  could  not  kill  him, 
Nor  touch  him  with  hot  hands,  nor  yet  with  hate. 
No,  and  it  was  not  you  I  saw  with  anger  . 
Instead,  I  rose  and  beat  at  steel-walled  fate, 
Cried  till  I  lay  exhausted,  sick,  unfriended, 
That  life,  so  seeming  sure,  and  love,  so  certain, 
Should  loose  such  tricks,  be  so  abruptly  ended, 
Ring  down  so  suddenly  an  unlooked-for  curtain. 

[140] 


The  House  of  Dust 

How  could  I  find  it  in  my  heart  to  hurt  you, 

You,  whom  this  love  could  hurt  much  more  than  I  ? 

No,  you  were  pitiful,  and  I  gave  you  pity ; 

And  only  hated  you  when  I  saw  you  cry. 

We  were  two  dupes ;  if  I  could  give  forgiveness, — 

Had  I  the  right, — I  should  forgive  you  now  .   .   . 

We  were  two  dupes  .  .  .  Come,  let  us  walk  in  starlight, 

And  feed  our  griefs :  we  do  not  break,  but  bow. 


Take  my  hand,  then,  come  with  me 

By  the  white  shadowy  crashings  of  a  sea  .    .    . 

Look  how  the  long  volutes  of  foam  unfold 

To  spread  their  mottled  shimmer  along  the  sand !  .   .   . 

Take  my  hand, 

Do  not  remember  how  these  depths  are  cold, 

Nor  how,  when  you  are  dead, 

Green  leagues  of  sea  will  glimmer  above  your  head. 

You  lean  your  face  upon  your  hands  and  cry, 

The  blown  sand  whispers  about  your  feet, 

Terrible  seems  it  now  to  die, — 

Terrible  now,  with  life  so  incomplete, 

To  turn  away  from  the  balconies  and  the  music, 


The  House  of  Dust 

The  sunlit  afternoons, 

To  hear  behind  you  there  a  far-off  laughter 

Lost  in  a  stirring  of  sand  among  dry  dunes  .   .   . 

Die  not  sadly,  you  whom  life  has  beaten! 

Lift  your  face  up,  laughing,  die  like  a  queen ! 

Take  cold  flowers  of  foam  in  your  warm  white  fingers  ! 

Death's  but  a  change  of  sky  from  blue  to  green  .   .   . 

As  evening  falls, 

The  walls  grow  luminous  and  warm,  the  walls 
Tremble  and  glow  .    .    .  the  music  breathes  upon  us, 
The  rayed  white  shaft  plays  over  our  heads  like  magic, 
And  to  and  fro  we  move  and  lean  and  change  .   .   . 
You,  in  a  world  grown  strange, 
Laugh  at  a  darkness,  clench  your  hands  despairing, 
Smash  your  glass  on  a  floor,  no  longer  caring, 
Sink  suddenly  down  and  cry  .    .   . 
You  hear  the  applause  that  greets  your  latest  rival, 
You  are  forgotten :  your  rival — who  knows  ? — is  I ... 
I  laugh  in  the  warm  bright  light  of  answering  laughter, 
I  am  inspired  and  young  .    .    .  and  though  I  see 
You  sitting  alone  there,  dark,  with  shut  eyes  crying, 
I  bask  in  the  light,  and  in  your  hate  of  me  .   .   . 
Failure  .   .   .  well,  the  time  comes  soon  or  later  .   .   . 


The  House  of  Dust 

The  night  must  come  .   .   .  and  I'll  be  one  who  clings, 
Desperately,  to  hold  the  applause,  one  instant, — 
To  keep  some  youngster  waiting  in  the  wings. 

The  music  changes  tone  ...  a  room  is  darkened, 
Someone  is  moving   .    .    .    the  crack  of  white  light 

widens, 

And  all  is  dark  again;  till  suddenly  falls 
A  wandering  disk  of  light  on  floor  and  walls, 
Winks  out,  returns  again,  climbs  and  descends, 
Gleams  on  a  clock,  a  glass,  shrinks  back  to  darkness; 
And  then  at  last,  in  the  chaos  of  that  place, 
Dazzles  like  frozen  fire  on  your  clear  face  . 
Well,  I  have  found  you.     We  have  met  at  last. 
Now  you  shall  not  escape  me :  in  your  eyes 
I  see  the  horrible  huddlings  of  your  past, — 
All  you  remember  blackens,  utters  cries, 
Reaches  far  hands  and  faint.     I  hold  the  light 
Close  to  your  cheek,  watch  the  pained  pupils  shrink, — 
Watch  the  vile  ghosts  of  all  you  vilely  think  .   .   . 
Now  all  the  hatreds  of  my  life  have  met 
To  hold  high  carnival  .   .   .  we  do  not  speak, 
My  fingers  find  the  well-loved  throat  they  seek, 
And  press,  and  fling  you  down  .  . .  and  then  forget . 

[143] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Who  plays  for  me?     What  sudden  drums  keep  time 

To  the  ecstatic  rhythm  of  my  crime? 

What  flute  shrills  out  as  moonlight  strikes  the  floor?  .  . 

What  violin  so  faintly  cries 

Seeing  how  strangely  in  the  moon  he  lies?  .    .   . 

The  room  grows  dark  once  more, 

The  crack  of  white  light  narrows  around  the  door, 

And  all  is  silent,  except  a  slow  complaining 

Of  flutes  and  violins,  like  music  waning. 


Take  my  hand,  then,  walk  with  me 
By  the  slow  soundless  crashings  of  a  sea  .    .    . 
Look,  how  white  these  shells  are,  on  this  sand ! 
Take  my  hand, 

And  watch  the  waves  run  inward  from  the  sky 
Line  upon  foaming  line  to  plunge  and  die. 
The  music  that  bound  our  lives  is  lost  behind  us, 
Paltry  it  seems  .   .   .  here  in  this  wind-swung  place 
Motionless  under  the  sky's  vast  vault  of  azure 
We  stand  in  a  terror  of  beauty,  face  to  face. 
The  dry  grass   creaks  in  the  wind,   the  blown  sand 
whispers, 

[144] 


The  House  of  Dust 

The  soft  sand  seethes  on  the  dunes,  the  clear  grains 

glisten, 

Once  they  were  rock  ...  a  chaos  of  golden  boulders  . . . 
Now  they  are  blown  by  the  wind  ...  we  stand  and 

listen 

To  the  sliding  of  grain  upon  timeless  grain 
And  feel  our  lives  go  past  like  a  whisper  of  pain. 
Have  I  not  seen  you,  have  we  not  met  before 
Here  on  this  sun-and-sea-wrecked  shore? 
You  shade  your  sea-gray  eyes  with  a  sunlit  hand 
And  peer  at  me  .   .   .  far  sea-gulls,  in  your  eyes, 
Flash  in  the  sun,  go  down  ...  I  hear  slow  sand, 
And  shrink  to  nothing  beneath  blue  brilliant  skies  .  .  . 


The  music  ends.     The  screen  grows  dark.     We  hurry 

To  go  our  devious  secret  ways,  forgetting 

Those  many  lives   .    .    .   We  loved,  we  laughed,  we 

killed, 

We  danced  in  fire,  we  drowned  in  a  whirl  of  sea- 
waves. 

The  flutes   are   stilled,   and  a  thousand  dreams   are 
stilled. 

[145] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Whose  body  have  I  found  beside  dark  waters, 
The  cold  white  body,  garlanded  with  sea-weed? 
Staring  with  wide  eyes  at  the  sky? 
I  bent  my  head  above  it,  and  cried  in  silence. 
Only  the  things  I  dreamed  of  heard  my  cry. 

Once  I  loved,  and  she  I  loved  was  darkened. 
Again  I  loved,  and  love  itself  was  darkened. 
Vainly  we  folloAV  the  circle  of  shadowy  days. 
The  screen  at  last  grows  dark,  the  flutes  are  silent, 
The  doors  of  night  are  closed.     We  go  our  ways. 


VII. 


The  sun  goes  down  in  a  cold  pale  flare  of  light. 
The  trees  grow  dark :  the  shadows  lean  to  the  east : 
And  lights  wink  out  through  the  windows,  one  by  one. 
A  clamor  of  frosty  sirens  mourns  at  the  night. 
Pale  slate-grey  clouds  whirl  up  from  the  sunken  sun. 

And  the  wandering  one,  the  inquisitive  dreamer  of 

dreams, 

The  eternal  asker  of  answers,  stands  in  the  street, 

[146] 


The  House  of  Dust 

And  lifts  his  palms  for  the  first  cold  ghost  of  rain. 
The  purple  lights  leap  down  the  hill  before  him. 
The  gorgeous  night  has  begun  again. 


'I  will  ask  them  all,  I  will  ask  them  all  their  dreams, 
I  will  hold  my  light  above  them  and  seek  their  faces, 
I  will  hear  them  whisper,  invisible  in  their  veins.  .   .   .  ' 
The  eternal  asker  of  answers  becomes  as  the  darkness, 
Or  as  a  wind  blown  over  a  myriad  forest, 
Or  as  the  numberless  voices  of  long-drawn  rains. 


We  hear  him  and  take  him  among  us  like  a  wind  of 

music, 

Like  the  ghost  of  a  music  we  have  somewhere  heard; 
We  crowd  through  the  streets  in  a  dazzle  of  pallid 

lamplight, 

We  pour  in  a  sinister  mass,  we  ascend  a  stair, 
With  laughter  and  cry,  with  word  upon  murmured 

word, 
We  flow,  we  descend,  we  turn.  .   .   .  and  the  eternal 

dreamer 
Moves  on  among  us  like  light,  like  evening  air  ... 

[147] 


The  House  of  Dust 

Good  night !     good  night !  good  night !  we  go  our  ways, 
The  rain  runs  over  the  pavement  before  our  feet, 
The  cold  rain  falls,  the  rain  sings. 
We  walk,  we  run,  we  ride.     We  turn  our  faces 
To  what  the  eternal  evening  brings. 

Our  hands  are  hot  and  raw  with  the  stones  we  have 

laid, 

We  have  built  a  tower  of  stone  high  into  the  sky. 
We  have  built  a  city  of  towers. 

Our  hands  are  light,  they  are  singing  with  emptiness. 
Our  souls  are  light.     They  have  shaken  a  burden  of 

hours.  ... 

What  did  we  build  it  for?     Was  it  all  a  dream?  .  .  . 
Ghostly  above  us  in  lamplight  the  towers  gleam  .    .   . 
And  after  a  while  they  will  fall  to  dust  and  rain ; 
Or  else  we  will  tear  them  down  with  impatient  hands ; 
And  hew  rock  out  of  the  earth,  and  build  them  again. 

1916 — 1917 


[148] 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


470837" 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


